Some Blond Fool
by Sinister Papaya Fondue
Summary: Reeling from media reports that Ron has cheated on her, Hermione finds support in the oddest of places. And when a common enemy is identified, she doesn't stand a chance... LM/HG, DM/HG, LM/NM
1. Chapter 1

Hermione wanted to kill something. She had a very good idea of what that something was, too, but she'd never have the satisfaction.

"I cannot believe you wouldn't tell me this!" she said, her voice bordering on hysteria. In the wake of her declaration, Harry Potter wore a look that said he'd rather be facing Voldemort.

"I didn't know, Hermione. I swear I didn't!"

"You're his best friend! How could you not know?"

"Look, believe whatever you want, but if I had known I would have said something." He said it with that air of finality that he'd adopted somewhere around fifth year. It was that attitude that he couldn't waste time arguing, nor could he change someone's mind that didn't want to be changed. That was how he was now; he stated his opinion, told you what you could do with yours, and that was that. Noticing the way her lips trembled and the ominous glaze of tears in her eyes, he softened. "Hermione, I've got two best friends in this world and you're one of them. If the other one was doing anything to hurt you, you know I'd beat the snot out of him."

The anger drained out of her and she sat down abruptly. "I just…I don't understand why he…"

He sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I don't either. He's an idiot, Hermione." She nodded into his chest, her tears seeping warmly into his robe. Harry didn't need to say more; he knew well enough that this sort of physical comfort was better than any speech. They sat that way for perhaps fifteen minutes, until the door opening and closing brought them both back to reality.

Hermione sat up automatically, wiping her face and attempting to smooth her hair. Harry wondered why women always tried to make it look like they hadn't just been bawling. If he was going to cry, damn it, he was going to have a right good sob and nothing and no one would interrupt it. It was an infrequent occurrence, but one that he had never been ashamed of.

"Harry, I'm hungry, do you want to order--" Ginny stopped abruptly as she entered the room and noticed Hermione. Her eyes narrowed as she took in her friend's state. Then she set an imperious glare upon Harry and demanded, "What did my brother do?"

* * *

Hermione sighed and tried to enjoy the warm summer evening as she walked back to her flat. It really was beautiful out. It would be more beautiful if Ron hadn't cheated on her with the whole world as an audience, courtesy of Witch Weekly. She strongly suspected that Rita Skeeter had been biding her time, waiting for something to use for payback against the girl that had blackmailed her. Hermione had no ammunition to return the favor, since Rita had admitted two years before that she was an animagus and had registered herself properly.

She at least had the satisfaction of knowing that Ron would be in for hell when he dared to show his face. Ginny was incensed, and though Harry tried very hard to avoid conflict these days, she knew he was angry, too.

After that brief flare of rage at Harry's, she wasn't angry anymore. She knew she ought to be. Instead, she just felt like curling up somewhere and wallowing. Any why shouldn't she? Other people were allowed to indulge in behavior like that, so why not her? Driven by illogical whim, Hermione detoured into the nearest pub.

* * *

The world was spiraling, and she was at the bottom looking up. Were those her feet she was tripping over? Oh, and a pair of arms holding her up…who was that? She was being dragged through a doorway and experienced a surreal moment as her head knocked against the frame. She felt it, but didn't feel it. It was interesting to observe her own injury with as much care as she would have watched someone on television fall down the stairs.

"Ah…shit, sorry."

Past the doorway now, and there was a second voice.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"What was I supposed to do, leave her there?"

"Couldn't you have brought her to her own flat?"

"I don't know where it is and she isn't exactly coherent enough to tell me."

She was handed off to a second pair of arms. These felt different, but not unsafe.

"What are you doing?"

"Preparing the guest room."

"Where are you going to sleep, then?"

"The couch."

A snort. "I think the drunken pity-case can have the couch."

"Cut her a break." A pause and some unidentified shuffling noises. "You've been a drunken pity-case once or twice yourself, you know."

The hands tightened slightly around her, but they weren't hurtful. She was grateful for them because in their absence she would have been on the floor. "Careful or I'll throw you both out."

The other ignored him. She was moving suddenly, propelled by both of them. Either they were moving very fast, or her feet had completely stopped responding to her brain.

"Give me that bin." The second voice.

"Oh god, you don't think she's going to throw up, do you?"

"If she doesn't, I'm the Minister of Magic. And you're cleaning it up."

The first half-groaned, half-sighed. She was being arranged in the bed now.

"Hermione," the first said, "Hermione, listen." He knew her name? Oh, that was fortunate, right? "If you feel like you're going to be sick there's a bin here. The bathroom is…"

But she would never know, because at that moment she blacked out.

* * *

She woke to the smell of coffee and sunlight determinedly penetrating the blinds. Her first instinct was to turn over and drown it out, but as she summoned her leaden limbs to move, she realized that she had no idea where she was. The last thing she remembered…was the pub and a cute blonde.

Oh, hell. She had gotten rip-roaringly drunk and gone home with someone. Well, it served Ron right, but she wasn't sure how she felt about it. It wasn't the sort of thing she did. What if he wanted to try to date her after this? She was still married to Ron, for now… Oh sweet Merlin…what if she was pregnant? What if the mystery blond had some kind of disease? This was why she prided herself on _not_ doing what other people did in these kinds of situations…

Hermione took a breath. Presumably, given the scent of coffee and the sound of someone moving around beyond the door, he was still here. All right, she would gather her clothes – wait, she was still wearing her clothes. She was fully dressed. Maybe she hadn't slept with him? Hermione stuck a hand up her skirt and assessed things. No, she hadn't slept with anyone last night. Thank God. And thank whoever this kind man was, for having her completely incapacitated and not taking advantage of it.

If there was a clear path to the door she could try to sneak out without facing him. But no, he had done a nice thing, bringing her here and not molesting her. Oh, wait a bleeding minute, why should he be declared a nice guy for behaving _normally_? He was the one who'd pumped her full of booze, after all. He wasn't faultless.

She sat up and instantly regretted it. Somehow her stillness had kept the raging hangover at bay. Not so anymore. A sharp, throbbing headache made itself evident behind her eyes and her stomach did a cartwheel. Her entire body felt heavy and sore. She'd be lucky if she made it home without vomiting. It was then that she noticed the bin near the bed. Oh lord, it had been used. She had barfed in this poor man's bin. She couldn't leave it for him to clean up, could she? That would be horribly wrong, right?

She was just going to have to face the music. Hermione picked up the offensive-smelling bin and began to move cautiously. She had been hungover once or twice before and knew very well that a sudden movement could be enough to make her stomach rebel again. So far, so good, but she was staggering a little more than she was comfortable with. God, was she still _drunk_?

She made it out of the bedroom. She was completely disoriented. This man's flat was gargantuan! She heard his voice, deep and smooth; presumably he was on the phone. She followed the voice. Once she found him, the real embarrassment would begin.

By the time she reached the kitchen, he was done with his conversation. She stood in the doorway and took him in. Well, at least in her grief-induced alcoholism she had good taste. The back side of him was good to look at. He was tall, a few inches over six feet, with a strong frame and a very nice rear end. And that hair – it was better than she remembered. It was pale and lustrous, though she hadn't recalled it being this long.

His spine straightened in a way that meant he was aware of her presence. Now he would turn and she would see the face of the man that might have been the key to her revenge. She hoped the pleasantry of his rear continued in the front.

It did. On yes, it did. But this was a face she knew. A face she hated. A face she never thought she'd see again, except if it was glaring from the front of the Daily Prophet with some bleak headline. Lucius Malfoy. Merlin help her, Lucius Malfoy!

His look was neutral, betraying nothing until the bin began to slip from her hands. Then his eyes widened.

"The bin--!"

It was too late. The bin hit the floor, and of course its contents splattered, because if they hadn't it wouldn't be the truly horrific nightmare it was turning out to be. He cringed and closed his eyes and took two deep breaths. He looked like he was trying to find reasons not to kill her.

For once in her life Hermione's brain failed her. Instinct took over and her hands went to the sides of her head and she screamed. Long and loud and at the top of her lungs, she screamed.

He appeared unaffected when she finally ran out of air. "Are you quite finished?" he asked sharply. Evidently the bastard had expected this reaction.

Anger overwhelmed her panic. She opened her mouth to shout at him. But as soon as she did, her stomach did another cartwheel and a few back handsprings. Vomit was imminent. He had expected this, too, apparently. With an expression of distaste he pointed and said, "Third door on the left."

Whatever she wanted to say to him, it would have to wait. Hermione turned and ran, flinging open the third door on the left and only just making it to the toilet.

* * *

She stayed in the bathroom a long time, regrouping. This was a hundred times worse than she thought. She _wanted_ to hate him, but things didn't entirely compute. Even drunk she would have known if she was flirting with Lucius Malfoy. Why would he be in a muggle pub, anyway? So how had she come to be in his flat, supremely embarrassed but unharmed?

Gathering the tattered ends of her composure, she emerged. He was, of all places, in the kitchen alternately arguing with someone on a Bluetooth earpiece and cleaning up _her_ vomit.

"Franz, I'm telling you that these numbers aren't adding up," he was saying. "No." Pause. "I don't know! Look at your employees. Maybe someone is embezzling." Pause. "How should I know?"

Her brain stalled at the image. Why was he using a cell phone? Why was he actually cleaning with a mop? Couldn't he just wave his wand and –

Oh. Right. After the war Lucius Malfoy had cut a deal with the Wizengamot. Instead of going back to Azkaban, he gave up his wand for the remainder of his sentence. There had been something like nine years left, and with six gone by…it would be three more years before he got his wand back. It seemed he had adjusted.

"No, Franz, I will not audit your employees for free," he said in a tone of bored sarcasm, interrupting her train of thought. As the other man spoke, that intangible sixth sense told him he was not alone. He turned. "I will call you back and we can negotiate fees." He fished the phone out of his pocket – an iPhone, naturally, because Malfoys always had to have the newest and best, didn't they – and hung up.

He pulled the earpiece off and tossed it on the table. Then he fixed her in a penetrating glare. A million questions burst in her head. Strangely, it seemed that he was actually _waiting_ for her to ask them. But when nothing made it past her lips, he shook his head.

"Well. I think you can finish this." He handed her the mop, and as much as she wanted to by angry at him, she couldn't be. It _was_ her vomit, after all. He seemed about to say something else when the phone rang. He couldn't contain an annoyed sigh and a roll of his eyes. Wait, was his ringtone – was that a Radiohead song? This was surreal.

He picked up the earpiece and brushed past her. Evidently it was Franz and he didn't like being dismissed. Was…was Malfoy working a muggle job, too? Lord knew he had enough money to do nothing for nine years, and she would have thought that he'd consider muggle work below him. Boredom was powerful, though. And from the sounds of things he was dealing with money. Nothing made a Malfoy happier than that.

Hermione mopped up the remainder of the mess. What was happening here? Normally she would have bolted the second she realized it was him, puddle of puke be damned. Malfoy was being civil to her; shouldn't he have kicked her out? Why would he help her in the first place? Damn it, her head hurt badly enough without the mountain of questions!

As an afterthought she washed out the bin. It seemed like the right thing to do. When she was done she was looking around for a towel when the hairs on her neck stood on end. He was watching her this time. He leaned in the door frame, arms crossed.

"Draco should be here with a hangover potion soon," he commented.

"He…I…" Hermione shut her mouth before any more stammered half-replies could escape. They had all made their peace with Draco after the war, but they weren't friends.

"I'm sure you were wondering how you got here. Draco was walking from the train station and saw you in the window of the pub. Apparently some blonde fool was trying to get you to leave with him."

In spite of the fact that he was very nicely clearing up a large black hole in her memory, Hermione felt a bit put off by his tone. It was patronizing – like a parent talking to a twelve year old. "Maybe I wanted to go with him," she retorted. She hadn't, if her reaction to waking up in a strange place an hour ago was any indication, but she wasn't going to admit that.

He rolled his startlingly blue eyes. "Such gratitude. In any case, you got two blonde fools that are, I must say, vastly superior."

She could only gawk at him. In spite of his sarcasm, he seemed…amenable. The beep of his phone gave her a reprieve. He took it out of his pocket and scanned a text message with a slight frown.

"Are you…are you working?" she found the courage to ask. She tried not to sound too incredulous. It was Thursday, after all – people with jobs would have to be working.

"Attempting to, yes. Hungover houseguests and all." He didn't look up as he entered a reply. He was practiced at this. He probably texted better than her. It was ridiculous how…_muggle_ he had become. Though she supposed he didn't have a choice without his wand. No, that wasn't true. He could have stayed at Malfoy Manor, surrounded by his wealth and magic. Why was he out here, seemingly on his own and so nonchalant about living without magic?

"What sort of job?" she asked carefully. One question at a time, until his patience ran out.

He shrugged. "Finances, accounting…same thing I did before. Money is money, be it pounds or galleons."

That made sense. She had never been quite sure of what job he did at the Ministry, but accounting seemed to fit him. "Franz is…?" she asked. Oh, how she hoped that Lucius Malfoy had a muggle boss!

"Franz is a client. A very neurotic client." The phone beeped again and he pointedly ignored it. "He's one of seven. Five muggle, two magical."

That blew her away. Who in the wizarding world would want Lucius Malfoy to do their accounts? He was a convicted Death Eater who wasn't exactly known for his honesty. Well, scratch that – she could think of a few Slytherins who would appreciate a slippery accountant.

"This is unreal. You're talking to me like…like I'm a person," she said, unable to moderate herself.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Was I wrong in that assessment? Are you a hippogriff in disguise?"

She shook her head, smiling for the first time. It seemed that living without magic had done him a lot of good. She tried to imagine six years without a wand, and even though she had lived nearly eleven without one already, she found that she couldn't comprehend it. He had adapted quite well.

"Well, in spite of your digestive pyrotechnics, it's lunch time and I'm hungry," he announced, stepping into the kitchen. "Do you want something?"

Her stomach flinched at the mere thought of food. She shook her head, grimacing.

"Feel free to shower. I highly recommend that," he said dryly. She was ready to be offended, but then she caught a glimpse of herself in the stainless steel refrigerator. She was an absolute fright. "Towels are in the closet next to the bathroom. I don't have any clothing for you, but I can dig something up if you are really averse to putting your dirty outfit back on." He was rummaging in a cabinet, talking as if she hung around in his flat every day. "Then do whatever you want until Draco gets here. I'm on the computer, but there should be something on television to entertain you." He emerged from the cabinet with a jar of jam and flashed a smile. "I have satellite."

"I…thanks." She didn't know what else to say. It seemed that every time he opened his mouth, he flummoxed her.

He nodded and began to make himself lunch. He had slices of a baguette with raspberry jam and brie. If she hadn't been ready to vomit at any moment, it would have been extremely tantalizing.

"No house elves?" she asked, realizing how odd it was that he was making his own food.

"I can't have anything that I could compel to do magic for me," he answered, not missing a beat. "It's not much of a loss."

Hermione blinked. Maybe she was hallucinating. This couldn't be Lucius Malfoy. She was not standing in the elder Malfoy's flat. He was not discussing his life with her while sending text messages. She was asleep at home, that had to be it. The last forty-eight hours had been a bad dream. This was her mind gone off the deep end.

But she found, as she stripped in the strange bathroom and stepped into the shower, that the hot needles of water were all too real.

* * *

Forty minutes later Hermione emerged, feeling clean but not much better other than that. She picked up her clothes, fully intending to put them back on, but then she caught a whiff. Oh, God. They reeked of liquor and cigarettes, to the point that it made her stomach turn. If she wanted to keep herself from regurgitating again she was going to need something else. Oh, this was embarrassing. The only way to do this was to go out in the towel.

She wrapped it tightly around her body. Thankfully, it was a huge, plush towel that was long enough to reach the middle of her calves. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the hallway and followed his voice again.

He was talking to another client, this time in fast, fluent French. She knew a little but couldn't catch anything he said; financial terms were not part of that limited vocabulary. Amazingly, he didn't seem to want to make her squirm. Either that or he was too busy to milk the sheer humiliation of the entire situation. He stood up, not pausing in his negotiation, and ducked into the nearest door on the right. He emerged two minutes later, _still_ talking (it seemed like he'd barely taken a breath!), and dropped a pile of clothing into her arms. Then he disappeared back into his office and closed the door.

She found her way back to the guest room after a startled moment. She had really expected him to try to embarrass her as much as he could. It left her feeling curiously petty; was she wrong to expect so little of him? Hermione shook her head and tried to clear the errant thoughts. He had given her pajamas. How cliché…although she supposed it was the only thing he didn't mind her possibly throwing up on. It was extremely odd, though, to be slipping into Lucius Malfoy's too-large pajamas. This was what he slept in. In his bed. Oh, God.

Hermione shook her head. This was what alcohol did to her. It caused her to find the thought of Lucius Malfoy in bed exciting. Well, his pajamas were very comfortable, in any case, and she was going to take advantage of his satellite tv. She didn't watch nearly enough of it these days.

She was stretched across the couch, deeply involved in a rerun of Footballer's Wives, when Draco arrived. He strode in, stopped, and looked from her to the door of his father's office and back. She was equally fascinated with him; she hadn't seen Draco in years. He was as tall as his father and had finally taken ownership of his looks.

"Here," he said at last, holding out a slim vial of blue potion. "We thought you might need this."

She took it and downed it quickly. The effect was instant; her headache evaporated and her stomach felt settled. "Thanks. For the potion and for helping me last night. I wouldn't have--" her eyes fell on the copy of Witch Weekly at the top of the stack of papers in his hand. "Oh sweet Merlin, what is that?!" she shrieked.

"I don't know, I didn't--" he unfolded it. "Oh." They both looked at the picture on the cover, and for good reason; it was the two of them together, Draco's arm around her waist and her head leaning on his shoulder. It was taken from such an angle that it looked, for all intents and purposes, that they were holding one another amorously. It was blurry enough that it hid her extreme intoxication and what was likely an annoyed expression on his face, but they were definitely recognizable. The headline proclaimed "GRANGER COMFORTED BY FORMER SCHOOL ENEMY!!"

The door to Lucius's office opened. "I heard your dulcet tones. Everything all right?" Neither of them was sure whose dulcet tones he was referring to.

"I picked this up for Mum, and…," Draco answered, holding up the copy of Witch Weekly. Lucius strode over and took the flimsy magazine.

"Hm. It would seem that someone has it in for you, Miss Granger."

Hermione sat down heavily on the couch, fighting tears. "It's that miserable Rita Skeeter. She has a vendetta against me. She was _waiting_ for something to use against me."

"It seems your husband obliged."

She looked up, startled. It was Draco who had said it, but she would have expected it from Lucius. It was the sort of thing he would say. Apparently Draco was taking up the torch of obnoxiousness.

"That's why you're being nice to me," she said, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Because you know."

"Well, we don't live under a rock. Everyone knows."

"You know that Ronald Weasley cheated on me…and you're not mocking me ruthlessly?"

"That would be most insensitive," Lucius said, but he was hiding a smile behind his hand.

"Well I'm glad you two enjoy my misfortune." She stood up and stuck her nose in the air. "Thank you for assisting me last night and for the potion today. I'm sorry I vomited in your flat. I'll be going now." _And I'm taking your pajamas with me, you miserable git_, she thought.

* * *

Neither of them impeded her as she stormed out of the flat. She had put her own shirt back on after spraying it healthily with cologne she'd found in the bathroom. She registered that this was what Lucius smelled like on a daily basis. The fool; he didn't need cologne, as he had charisma. It didn't smell bad, though - much better than booze and cigarettes.

So she was walking down the street in an innocuous white shirt, his navy blue pajama bottoms that were so long that they pooled around her feet, and her battered black flip flops. She had shoved her other clothing into her mercifully large purse and the borrowed top was tied around her waist. It was another beautiful day. Happy people strolled by, mocking her with their contentment.

"Granger! Hey, Granger!"

Oh no. Which one was it? They sounded so alike now. She whirled, annoyed, and came face to face with Draco. She wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

"What?" she demanded.

"You left this." He held out a hand. It was her cell phone. She only kept it so that she could talk to her parents; understandably, they found it hard to get used to owls. Some of her childhood friends were in there, as well – the few she'd stayed in touch with.

"Oh. Thank you." She took it and turned to resume her walk.

"Hermione, I'm sorry," Draco said. "What I said was unkind."

She sighed. "Yeah, but it's true. I might as well get used to that. I mean, pretty soon people are going to be saying much worse because they all think I'm fleeing to you for comfort."

"I don't get it. Shouldn't everyone be sympathetic with _you_ and not the Weasel?"

She chuckled. Clearly he had never experienced Rita Skeeter's ability to play her readers like a harp. "You'll see, Draco. You'll get the fallout, too."

She turned to go, but his hand around her wrist stopped her. He was smirking. "If it's going to be a scandal we may as well give them something that'll really blow their minds." And before she could respond, he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.

* * *

Hermione didn't recall how she got home. Right, it was a cab that Draco had hailed for her. Jesus Christ, she had to stop thinking about the way he kissed. It wasn't real. He was only doing it to taunt the intrusive media and probably to taunt Ron; she knew that nothing in the world would make Ron more infuriated than her being romantically involved with Malfoy. But oh my, could Draco Malfoy kiss. Or maybe it was that it had been a long time since she'd been with someone who could; she knew her husband wasn't the world's greatest kisser. Just for a minute, then, she could think about how Malfoy's lips had brushed hers with just the right amount of pressure and how his tongue attacked and retreated with a veiled promise…

There were eleven owls outside her flat. Oh, hell, it was starting already and that issue had only been out one day! Her cell phone had seventeen missed calls and three voicemails. They were probably all her mother; she'd left her a sobbing message.

She decided on the lesser of two evils. She would get to the owls tomorrow; no doubt half of them were from readers of Witch Weekly and the other half from her friends, berating her for going anywhere near Malfoy. Instead, she listened to her mother's voicemails and then started to dial her number. As she did, the phone beeped. A text message. No, a media message. Curious, she opened it.

A song began to play. It was vaguely familiar.

_Now listen I think you and me h__ave come to the end of our time,__  
__What do you want, some kind of reaction? Well, OK, that's fine.  
Alright, how would it make you feel i__f I said you that you never made me come?  
In the year and a half that we spent together, yeah, I never really had much fun._

I never wanted it to end up this way,  
You've only got yourself to blame,  
I'm gonna tell the world you're rubbish in bed now  
And that you're small in the game.

In spite of herself she was smiling. Someone had sent her an angry breakup song. It was probably one of her girlfriends from home, but when she checked the number it was one that she didn't recognize. Hermione frowned. She had no idea who had sent it.

_I saw you thought this was gonna be easy, well, you're out of luck.  
Yeah, let's rewind, let's turn back time t__o when you couldn't get it up,  
You know what it should've ended there, that's when I should've shown you the door.  
As if that weren't enough to deal with you became premature._

I'm sorry if you feel that I'm being kinda mental,  
But you left me in such a state.  
But now I'm gonna do what you did to me,  
Gonna reciprocate.

A sudden certainty hit her. Who had last had her phone? Yes. Draco Malfoy. And who had indicated, very unsubtly, that he would help her reciprocate? But she was fairly sure that Draco didn't have a phone of his own. In spite of his father's mugglization, he was still very far removed from muggle culture. He would have no knowledge of muggle music, or how to send a message like this.

Perhaps his father had helped him? Perhaps…Lucius had sent it himself? She was unconscious in his flat for hours, and milling around in it nearly all day. He could have gotten her phone number. But why would he do that? She shook her head. It wasn't possible. It was probably just one of her girlfriends who had changed to a new number.

She texted 'thanks' back to the mystery person and went to sleep.

* * *

The number of owls had tripled by early the next morning. Sighing, Hermione opened her window and they dropped their bits of mail on her desk. Well, there were no howlers; that was good, at least. She located the ones that were from the expected people first. There was one from Harry, Ginny, Luna, Fred and George (she'd open that last, very carefully and at a safe distance), and (God help her) Molly Weasley.

Harry first. It was short and carefully worded.

_Hermione, I know you're upset…but Malfoy?_

Then Ginny.

_Hermione Jean Granger! There is no use in trading one piece of stupid rubbish for another!_ Wow, she really was mad at her brother.

Luna next. It was about what she expected.

_I'm sorry to hear that Ronald is behaving boorishly. Dad says that it's succubus gnomes that make men stray, so here's a charm that ought to repel them._

Hermione smiled, knowing full well that there was no such thing as a succubus gnome. Nonetheless, she picked up the charm, which was a green stone in the shape of an octagon, and slipped it over her head. Luna meant well and Hermione would be eternally grateful for that.

Now she was down to the two that she least wanted to open. Sighing, she picked up Molly's letter and opened it. It wasn't what she expected.

_Hermione,_

_I know that what my son has done is inexcusable and that he's broken your heart. He has heard from me more than anyone else how foolish he is. He will be lucky if he manages to win you back. Of course I hope that he can, but that is up to you. In the meantime, though, I know you are vulnerable and angry. Perhaps your liaison with Malfoy is an attempt to get back at Ron, or maybe you genuinely like him. I don't know. I just ask you to please be careful. When you are heart-broken you may do some things you later regret. I am here if you need to talk._

_Love,_

_Molly_

Hermione sniffled and beat back the tears. She didn't want to cry. Molly was a hellcat when it came to her children, but even she could acknowledge when one of them was wrong. She felt a pang of sympathy when she thought about all the dark stares Ron was surely getting at the Burrow. She scoffed at it a moment later; he had done it to himself. With a deep breath, she picked up the letter from Fred and George. She placed it on the desk, took five steps backward, and opened it with a flick of her wand.

Nothing happened. Cautiously she approached. It seemed to be just a normal letter, though there was something enclosed with it.

_Hermione,_

_Next time ickle Ronnie tries to get up some other bird's skirt, give him a bit of this. It's not our design, but we hear it's highly effective._

_-F & G_

_P.S. – It might be interesting to give some to Malfoy, too._

Hermione examined the small packet of blue powder that had come with the letter. She had no idea what it was, but Fred and George's endorsement meant that if she used it on Ron, it would probably be highly painful and/or embarrassing. He deserved it. She put the sachet of powder in her desk drawer. Perhaps one day, if she was feeling particularly vengeful, she'd use it. This hadn't turned out so bad. No one was berating her except Ginny. Well, that was only the letters from people that actually liked her. She was sure the mail from the Witch Weekly readers would be worse. But as she waded through the pile, she was pleasantly surprised. Most of them were letters of support or encouragement. This was definitely not the reaction that Rita had been looking for. Had she inadvertently turned Hermione and Draco into media darlings?

Shaking her head, Hermione began to write back to Harry and Ginny. They were always together, so if one got the letter the other would be there to read it, also.

_Harry & Ginny,_

_Relax, it isn't what it seems. I got a bit depressed the other night after I left your flat and decided to go to the pub. After drinking myself into a fine state of oblivion, I would have made some very bad choices if not for Malfoy. That picture is him dragging me away from the pub; I'm nearly unconscious. There's nothing romantic about it. He was only doing me a favor. I don't quite understand it, but I can definitely say that he's changed for the better._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

She sealed it and sent it off with one of the owls. Then she finally called her mother. Two hours later she hung up, drained. She had to get out and do something. Wallowing in her flat wasn't healthy.

As she got ready, an owl pecked at her window. Sighing, she let it in. It dropped the letter, which had Harry's handwriting on it. Hermione gasped when she opened it; a clipping of Witch Weekly unfolded onto her desk. It was her and Malfoy on the sidewalk kissing. _We may as well give them something that'll really blow their minds, _he'd said. Oh, the slimy git had _known_ this would end up in the magazine!

Harry's letter said only: _Nothing romantic, huh?_

A/N: The song in this chapter is Lily Allen's "Not Big".


	2. Chapter 2

She tried valiantly to ignore the fact that the entire world thought she was in an intimate relationship with Draco Malfoy. She went shopping. It was for muggle clothes in muggle stores, but still she couldn't shake the paranoid feeling that everyone was watching her. As Draco's bold behavior had proven, there _was_ someone following her around in the hopes of getting incriminating photographs.

Buying some new clothes made her feel a bit better, especially because they looked amazing on her. Of course, pictures of her looking fashionable and amazing would never appear in Witch Weekly. After two hours she sat down at a café and ordered an espresso. Her phone seemed to be burning a hole in her pocket.

At last she gave up and took it out. If that mysterious phone number from last night was either Malfoy, she'd be able to properly berate them. Never mind planning a way to diffuse the situation…

Taking a deep breath, she dialed. There was still the possibility that it was one of her friends from home, in which case she'd have a nice catch up conversation and leave it at that. The phone rang once, twice, three times, four…and then went to voicemail.

It _was_ him. Lucius Malfoy's voice calmly informed her that he wasn't available and that she could leave a detailed message and he'd return her call as soon as possible. She was so stunned listening to the recorded message that she didn't even realize it was over and it had beeped. It was recording her.

"You!" was all she said, simultaneously ending the call. The world didn't make any sense. Draco Malfoy had assisted her in one of her worst moments. His father was more of a bloody muggle than she was. And now one had kissed her and the other was sending her massively inappropriate yet comforting messages?

Hermione moaned out loud. This was too confusing! The waiter came over a moment later and gave her an odd look as he set down another espresso.

"Everything all right, dear?"

"As a matter of fact, it's not."

"Man troubles?" he asked companionably.

"You have no idea."

"Try me," he grinned.

Hermione took a deep breath. "My husband cheated on me three days ago, yesterday my former worst enemy kissed me and I sort of liked it and now everyone thinks I've left my husband for him, and I think my former worst enemy's father is flirting with me via text message."

The waiter blinked and then appeared impressed. "My dear," he said, picking up her empty cup, "aside from the cheating, I wish I had your problems."

* * *

She had just left the café when Lucius called her back. She was feeling jittery from the two espressos and muttered a brief prayer before answering. This would probably not be her finest hour.

"Hello."

"That was quite the eloquent message you left."

Ignoring his sarcasm, she demanded, "Did you tell Draco to kiss me?"

"No." He paused. "I wasn't aware that he did that." Another pause. Her eyes widened – did this _bother_ him? Of course it did, he probably didn't want his son kissing anyone that wasn't a pureblood. That had to be it. He could care less, otherwise, because he certainly had no interest in her. "He is a big boy now, very capable of his own plotting," he went on. "Let me guess. Witch Weekly?"

"Yes," Hermione answered. "Front and center."

"That proves that someone is following you and trying to get incriminating pictures. That's probably all he was trying to do."

"Oh, come on, like the two of you don't get a sick enjoyment out of knowing that Harry and half the Weasleys would rather hang themselves than see me with Draco!"

"I imagine it is making your wayward husband quite jealous," was all he said in response.

"He's got no right to be jealous!" she exclaimed just a tad too loudly. Several people on the street gave her strange looks.

"Certainly not," Lucius agreed.

"Well, this can't…Draco has to…there has to be some damage control." Hermione felt a headache building behind her right eye. Was she really on the phone negotiating with Lucius Malfoy?

"You don't need damage control if there isn't any damage."

"Oh, believe me, there's damage."

He sighed, a dramatic, long-suffering thing. "Fine. Draco will be here around six o'clock. Come to my flat and we'll discuss a strategy."

"Ok. Where…?"

"Ah yes, I forget you were intoxicated when you last made the trip. It's--" he stopped abruptly, "bloody hell, it's Franz. That man…I'll text you."

The dial tone was buzzing in her ear before she even realized that he hung up. Then she jumped when the phone vibrated against the side of her head. If people weren't looking at her before, they definitely were now. Damn him!

Just for that, she was going to go early. It was a little after four now. If she walked she would be there in half an hour. It was nice enough that she could, and her bags weren't so heavy that it would be uncomfortable. She felt no shame whatsoever in using him for his tv. She had a lot of Footballer's Wives to catch up on, after all.

* * *

He didn't seem as surprised by her early arrival as she'd hoped. In fact, she was the one that was more surprised, because she was greeted enthusiastically by two dogs. They were large with gleaming grey coats and blue eyes. What were they called? Ah yes, Weimaraners. They were beautiful.

Lucius nudged one of the eager dogs aside with a gentle prod of his foot. "It's not six," he said pointedly.

"No, it isn't," she agreed.

He stared at her impassively for a moment and then shrugged. "Gives me an excuse to end the day early. If I have to talk to Franz one more time, I may board a plane to Switzerland and kill him."

"That bad?"

"One of his employees embezzled something like 600,000 euros from his company, and the company's not doing well as it is."

"Ouch," Hermione said, smiling as the dogs sniffed her frantically, their stubs of tails wagging. It was so strange to be having a polite, everyday sort of conversation with him.

"Yes. Ouch." At last he stood aside to let her in. "The dogs are Oberon and Titania."

Hermione smiled at the pretentious names. "Were they here yesterday?" she asked. There had been no trace of any pets that she remembered, but she hadn't exactly gone exploring.

"Yes, but they were in their playroom. Draco created it." He turned, leaving her to close the door. The dogs nearly tripped over themselves to follow him. "I'll show you," he said over his shoulder.

Once inside the playroom, she had to give Draco credit; this was an excellent piece of magic. He had created an outdoor menagerie for the two dogs in one of the spare rooms. It was a tremendous field complete with its own weather; bright sun, fluffy clouds, the perfect temperature, and a slight breeze. Dog toys and bones were scattered in the grass and self-filling water bowls gleamed in the sun. There was also a small, shaded lean-to with plush cushions in it if the dogs needed to nap. She wondered if it had a night cycle and the dogs slept in here, or if they slept with Lucius. Seriously, why did her mind keep returning to his bed? She was sure Freud would have something to say about it, but screw him, he was dead.

"This is really impressive," she admitted. It was the perfect spring day inside and in spite of her misery and confusion, her spirits were lifted. Watching the dogs gambol around and fight over tattered toys was enough for that.

He only nodded in response. Hermione looked up from petting Oberon and decided to press her luck. "If you don't mind me asking, how come you live here instead of at your Manor?"

Titania was apparently jealous of her companion's attention and butted up against Lucius. Absently, he stroked the dog's head. He didn't answer for a long minute and she thought that maybe she had pushed too far, too fast. But then he said,

"It's easier to live without magic when you aren't surrounded by it all the time. You forget that you're missing something."

* * *

Though he had forsworn work, he disappeared into the office after that odd moment of honesty. Hermione did as she had planned and planted herself in front of the telly. She was halfway through another episode of her favorite guilty pleasure when she sensed him standing behind the couch. She glanced up; he was watching the screen intently. At present, two of the actresses were snorting cocaine in a bathroom stall.

"I wouldn't think you would watch something like this," he said.

"Ditto," she returned.

"It's full of promiscuity and backstabbing." A smirk graced his features. "What's not to like?"

* * *

"Well, you two are regular pals, aren't you?" Draco asked when he arrived and found them sitting on the same couch watching Footballer's Wives.

"Quiet," Hermione said. "It's the last episode."

Draco snorted and went into the kitchen to look for something. "Father, what's for dinner?"

"Whatever we order."

"Indian?"

Lucius looked at her and it took her a moment to realize he was expecting a yes or no.

"Oh. That's fine."

* * *

So there she was, eating take-out Indian food with the two blonde fools.

"The problem is this," she said. "During the Triwizard Tournament I figured out that Rita Skeeter, newswoman extraordinaire, was an unregistered animagus. She could take the form of a ladybug and that's how she was getting all her stories. A lot of those stories revolved around me and how I was a tart."

Draco inhaled too quickly and coughed. "She obviously didn't know you very well. Most tarts don't spend their evenings in the library."

"I doubt you ever set foot in that library your entire seven years," she shot back. "What were you doing that was so worthwhile?"

Lucius looked back and forth between them. "Play nicely, children," he remarked mildly.

"Anyway," Hermione went on, "once I figured it out I captured her. I kept her in a jar for about eight months."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Lucius said, "but that would be kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment."

She shrugged. It was, but at the time it had seemed appropriate.

"And I thought getting punched in the face was bad," Draco muttered. He set his fork down. "Didn't know you had it in you, Granger."

"An excellent vengeance, but it is easy to see where her motivation in this latest campaign comes from," Lucius said.

"Exactly. And she admitted she was an animagus two years ago, so I have nothing to blackmail her with to keep her under control."

Draco was shaking his head in disbelief. "You play dirty, Granger."

"Yes, it's not behavior that's very becoming of a Gryffindor," Lucius agreed. He was smirking behind his hand again.

"Please," she said dismissively. "The woman is a ruiner of lives."

Silence met her declaration and lasted until Lucius said, "We know that well enough."

She looked up. Lucius's smirk was gone. Draco, too, appeared much more serious. A look passed between them.

"We have our own bone to pick with Ms. Skeeter, for lack of better terminology," Lucius started. "Narcissa and I made the mistake of picking a slow week to get divorced."

Hermione's eyes widened. So that was the other part of the puzzle, the other reason he was out here – he wasn't married anymore. She was sure the Manor was waiting for him when he got his wand back, but for now, there was nothing to keep him there.

"Everything was amicable. Agreements were made, things were settled…all that had to be done was a few trips to court. Well, that wasn't good enough for Ms. Skeeter. She seized onto it like a vulture to a carcass. Even though we both stated the reason for divorce as irreconcilable differences, she proceeded to fabricate sensational stories."

"It was ridiculous," Draco said darkly. "But it was still at that point where people would believe anything they were told about us."

"About me," Lucius corrected.

"Yes, well, we needn't go into details. People ate up the things she wrote. It didn't matter that my mother told them over and over that none of it was true. No one listened. Even the Wizengamot believed it. They tried to overturn his trial and retry him."

"That's illegal!"

"Yes, we know," Lucius said, again in that curiously mild tone.

Hermione was horrified. "And she didn't care at all, did she?"

"No. As it was, the Wizengamot amended their ruling and restricted him to the Manor."

"It was house arrest," Lucius said. "But with no house elves, no visitors, no magical objects of any significant power, no potions, nothing I could presumably use to harm anyone. And then it was a real arrest, when I left the Manor to go to my own divorce hearing."

A month ago she would have thought that all of it served him right. Now it made her terribly angry; Rita Skeeter truly had no soul. It didn't matter that in those days Lucius had been a real bastard. He had already given up his wand, and no matter how comfortable he seemed without it, she knew it had been an incredibly difficult thing to do. He had been ill-prepared for the results of the war and its fallout. Every moment of those first few years had probably been a kind of torture to him, especially since his learning had to be done with everyone watching. Growth and change were never easy, and he'd done both, that much was obvious. So, to be hated, rendered a squib, then have to deal with a divorce, and during all that, to have a heartless crackpot kick him while he was down for her own amusement…

"What happened?" Hermione asked softly.

"I spent three weeks in Azkaban. They were threatening the Dementor's Kiss. Narcissa finally had to go on the record under the influence of Veritaserum for them to believe that Skeeter was lying. Many of the people in the Wizengamot still had a vendetta…Narcissa said that they humiliated her." Lucius sighed. "But it worked. I was released, most of the restrictions were revoked, and the divorce went through."

"And nothing happened to Rita Skeeter at all," Hermione finished.

"Correct," Draco nodded. "They didn't even print a retraction, so most people still believe her rubbish. And given her propensity for making things up, I'm not 100 percent convinced that Weasley cheated on you."

Hermione's entire body was tense. She was infuriated. "That….that _bitch_."

"Our sentiments exactly."

Silence reigned. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she chewed a piece of naan. Clearing her throat, she stated, "I believe this is the part where we form an unholy alliance hell bent on bringing down Rita Skeeter."

Draco was looking at her with an expression of muted disbelief. Lucius smiled.

"You'll encounter no resistance from us."

* * *

She felt surprisingly comfortable plotting with them. She felt surprisingly comfortable with them, period. Slowly her brain was adjusting to the fact that she was where she was and with whom she was with. It felt good; it brought a strange sort of closure to a part of her life that she didn't like to visit. Everything really _had_ returned to normal, or, in the case of Lucius, become normal for the first time.

The two of them had broken out a bottle of wine. She respectfully declined, which they found highly amusing.

"I can't imagine why you wouldn't want some," Draco goaded.

"Yes, it's a very good vintage," Lucius agreed.

"I'm all right with the mango lassi, thanks," she replied queasily. Even the smell of the wine was evoking bad memories.

"All right," Lucius said, swirling the wine in his glass, "we've got most of the facts. Now we need a course of action."

"Before that, have you gotten any sense of the reaction to the pictures?" Draco asked. "What I mean is, is Skeeter getting what she wants out of this?"

"I'm not sure. All the letters I got so far actually seemed quite positive."

"Really?" Draco clearly had not expected this. Lucius's brow had creased slightly; she could tell that he was pondering exactly what that meant.

"Well, Witch Weekly's readership is primarily female. So I've definitely got some sympathy from other women whose boyfriends or husbands have cheated on them."

"And you, my offspring, are attractive and slightly dangerous," Lucius nodded. They both turned to look at him like he'd lost his mind. "What?" he demanded. "It's true. You may be immune, Ms. Granger, but the majority of women are like hummingbirds to nectar with that kind of man."

"So they like me because I'm the wronged wife having an empowering fling," Hermione stated, unable to keep the smile off her face, "and they like Draco because he's attractive and dangerous?"

"Hey, why is that a question?" Draco pouted.

"Perhaps I'm not explaining myself well. Draco is a man with a past that is dark and questionable, but also a man who redeemed himself and showed himself capable of great compassion and heroics. All the women reading that magazine know that."

"Oh my God, Dad," Draco muttered, sinking low in his seat. He looked so uncomfortable that Hermione wondered if torture might be preferable to unsolicited praise from his father. These purebloods truly were odd!

"I'm sure they also know that he's single. No doubt Rita would have informed them of that in her articles. And being your old school enemy, there is automatic tension. Sometimes that tension can boil over into sexuality. So it's the ultimate romance; you, wronged by your husband and devastated, and he, worthy but alone, meet…"

"Worthy but alone?!" Draco nearly shouted. Hermione laughed out loud.

"You meet and all those old tensions are dredged up, but time and circumstance have changed them. Bam. Cue fling."

"You have _got_ to stop watching television!" Draco thumped his fist on the table.

"Tell me that maudlin women wouldn't eat that up," Lucius addressed Hermione, ignoring his son.

It took all of her composure not to break into hysterical laughter. What Lucius was saying probably wasn't far off the mark, but Draco was right – he did need to stop watching tv. And Draco, poor Draco looked as though he wanted to break his wine glass and gouge his eye out with the shards.

"Ok," she said shakily, only just containing her laughter, "whatever the reason, they like us."

"Yes," Draco bit off. "Let's stay on task, _please_."

"I say that you should continue the façade until and unless opinion begins to turn. This is _not_ what Skeeter wanted, and anything we can do to counter her is good," Lucius said, only the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips.

"It's true, it would drive her mad that she's not getting what she wants."

"I just worry about escalation," Hermione frowned. "If she isn't getting the desired impact, she'll start to make up things that are more and more ridiculous. Next week I could be pregnant, and honestly, Draco, I'm not ready to be pregnant with our lovechild."

"I'm not ready to _create_ our lovechild," he muttered.

"You have to play her game, though," Lucius said. "And if you're creating your own scandal, rather than letting her do it for you, you're winning. Eventually it will force her hand and she'll be revealed as a fraud."

Hermione considered. He was probably right. Nothing would infuriate Rita more than her subjects actually complying with her wild publicity. It would leave her scrambling to find things that were more and more sensational. And if they had the readers on their side…

"This could work," she remarked.

"Could?" Lucius said. "It will." He poured himself another glass of wine. "And while you two are playing relationship charades, I'll be looking for evidence that Skeeter fabricated the report about your husband cheating."

"Oh, come on," Hermione sighed. "There were pictures."

"You saw what she did with the picture of you and I," Draco said. "For all we know she could have manipulated them and the whole thing never happened."

"What did he say about it?" Lucius asked.

He. Ron. She shook her head. "He said nothing. Nothing at all. It seemed like he wasn't sure himself."

"Idiot," Draco said with a sigh. He frowned deeply. "There's only one problem with this plan."

"What's that?"

"You can't leave the country, father. And since the incident happened in Mykonos, that presents a problem." Draco looked apologetic and delivered his next statement gently. "You also won't be able to do the kind of sneaking around necessary without a wand and without arousing suspicion."

Lucius took it in stride. "Ah, true. I forget I have a bad reputation."

"You aren't allowed to leave the country?" Hermione asked.

"Here they can monitor the wand shops to make sure I don't purchase a new one. They can't do that abroad. Now, if I really wanted to leave, I could…but I'd spend the rest of my life on the run and if and when I returned, I'd be arrested, thrown into Azkaban…the whole bit."

She marveled at it. All along she had thought that Malfoy got off easy, but it seemed that there was no end to the restrictions on him. He really did have to walk the straight and narrow to stay free. However, it was becoming increasingly possible that the straight and narrow…suited him.

"So what do we do?" she asked.

"I think it's a solid plan," Draco replied. "My father and I just need to switch places."

A beat of silence met his declaration. Hermione was reassured by a quick glance at Lucius; he looked as uneasy as she felt.

"There is no guarantee that I would be received well," he said, a bit more guarded than before. "And it would make Miss Granger appear both loose and positively mental."

"Well, you are trying to create a scandal, aren't you?"

"And why would I appear mental?" she asked. Loose she could understand, dating a son and a father in rapid succession, but why would it seem crazy? Yes, Malfoy had a past, but he was also a smart, good-looking man (her ruminations on his rear end prior to realizing it was him the other day proved that). Never mind that he was rich. Once they got over their initial fear, most women would not mind taking a shot at him. None of which she said out loud.

"I'm fifty-one years old. People would suspect you had some sort of daddy complex."

"That's not old," she shrugged. "I always wanted to date older men."

"When, Granger?" Draco asked. "You walked off that battlefield already married to Weasley."

She lapsed into a sullen silence. She didn't often think about the way her love life had gone, but Draco was too perceptive for his own good. There had been Viktor, of course, and she had enjoyed her few months with him more than she ever let on to anyone, but it never would have worked out. Then there was the debacle with Cormac McLaggen, which had been more out of revenge than anything else. And then there was only Ron. Ron, Ron, Ron. It had seemed so right but perhaps the war had throttled her better judgment. Wars tended to do such things.

"I'm not convinced," Lucius said at length. "There is no knowing how people will react to it. It could do more harm than good. I could end up looking like a lecherous creep in addition to all the other unsavory things I already appear to be, and Rita would be only too happy to return to writing about how you are a tart, Miss Granger."

"Or it could be good," Draco challenged. "Think about it. You have this reputation, but no one's heard a word about you in three years, father. If you reappear all of a sudden and you're dating a muggleborn…Hermione Granger, no less…it would turn everything they thought about you on its ear."

This time Lucius was the one that looked decidedly uncomfortable. Hermione thought that it might have something to do with the fact that Draco was now as ruthless a planner as he; gone was the whiny, spoiled brat that she had known. Lucius's heir had at last overtaken him.

"I am going to rue the day I ever got involved with this," he sighed.

"So you're in, then. Granger?"

Hermione frowned at the two of them. Lucius looked like he had a headache. Draco looked very sure of himself.

"Would people really believe it?" If she was reading it, she would have a hard time believing it, but she was smarter than most…

"Skeeter is banking on people believing whatever rubbish she creates. She wouldn't still be in business if they didn't."

Could she really do this? Could she pretend to be romantically involved with Lucius Malfoy? God, what would she tell people? Half of the people that mattered would think she'd gone nuts or hate her outright. Ron would probably attempt murder.

"One condition," she said. She had both of their attention; it was difficult not to squirm under their combined gaze, blue and grey. "I have to tell certain people. I'll lose half my friends if I don't."

"If they disassociate themselves with you because you date someone they don't approve of, they aren't your friends anyway." Hermione gave Draco a sideways glance. Her mother would have said the same exact thing. It was kind of disturbing, actually…

"I know, but…"

"Tell whoever you want as long as you think they can play along," Lucius said. "And for God's sake, make sure there aren't any ladybugs in the room when you do."

"Don't worry, I know how to make sure that a secret stays a secret," she said ominously. The two Malfoys exchanged a look. Then Draco smiled.

"All right, you two. You just…enjoy yourselves and I'll do all the work." He cut off whatever protest his father had been about to voice with an odd little chuckle. Draco stood up, tipped his empty glass at them, and headed for the door.

Lucius stared after him for a long time. Then his blue eyes met hers and he said, "I've created a monster."

She laughed. "Serves you right."

"I suppose." He tapped his fingers thoughtfully. "So, wildly inappropriate pretend girlfriend that is against my better judgment, shall we plan our first date?"

She tried to feel insulted, but like so many times already, she couldn't. This was troublesome, indeed. She had never met a man she couldn't stay angry at; whether that indicated a problem with her or with men in general, she didn't know. It had only been half a day, though. She suspected that before the end of this, he would incite her rage more than once. It was best to enjoy this sarcastic jousting while she could.

"Let me sleep on it."

From the way he smiled, she knew he was controlling the urge to make a tasteless comment.

"As you wish."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: This chapter is a bit angsty and may or may not induce tears; you've been warned.

* * *

She didn't have any time to wonder how Ginny had gotten into her flat. She was ambushed as she opened the door; Ginny's face appeared, hard and uncompromising, and the redhead nearly pulled her arm out of the socket as she propelled her inside.

"What in the hell are you thinking?" Ginny nearly shouted.

"Can you give me five minutes?" she responded caustically.

"I've been owling you all day! I even called you on your phone!"

"I wasn't here and the phone wasn't with me." She held up her shopping bags.

"What have you been buying, hashish?" Ginny demanded. "Because this thing with Malfoy is insane. You could only do it under the influence of a very strong drug!"

"I haven't _done_ anything. He kissed me. Big deal."

"You let him kiss you! Hermione, he's a complete turd, in case you forgot."

"I didn't forget, Gin." She opened the window and ducked a veritable flock of owls. "But he's not a turd. Not anymore."

The redhead crossed her arms over her chest. "Yeah, you mentioned that in your letter."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Of course," Ginny said crossly.

"It's a very long story. I'll tell it to you if you _don't interrupt_," Hermione warned. And though she agreed, Ginny interrupted – six times – and ninety minutes later, she had finally heard it all.

"So, if and when you start seeing things in the paper about Lucius and me, you know it's all just make-believe. But you can't tell anyone."

Ginny shook her head. "This is unbelievable. You're telling me that the Malfoys – _the Malfoys_ – want to help clear my idiot brother's name?"

Hermione shrugged. "They're getting something out of it. It makes both of them look awfully good, former Death Eaters dating a muggleborn, and they've been targeted by Skeeter, too. And I don't really know why, but they don't seem to think that he cheated."

"They're the only ones," she snorted. "Mum isn't talking to him. Dad stares him down every time he's in the room. Fred and George keep slipping their Endless Itching Powder into his shorts. Bill and Charlie both sent him nasty letters, and Percy told him the other day that he was a cock-up, right in front of Mum."

Hermione tried not to laugh. Even Percy, pretentious Percy, was on her side. He almost never resorted to profanity, so for him to call Ron a cock-up was the rough equivalent of a sailor's most colorful vocabulary.

"What about you and Harry?"

"I'm not talking to Ron, obviously," Ginny tossed her hair, agitated. "I can tell that Harry wants to, but he isn't so he can stay in solidarity with you and me."

"I'm sure he'll talk to him," Hermione sighed. "And don't get mad at him when he does. They are best friends, after all."

Ginny didn't respond. She sat moodily on the chaise, twisting a strand of her ginger hair. "I don't trust him, Hermione," she said suddenly, her voice loud in the large silence of the flat Ron and Hermione once shared.

"Harry?"

"No. Malfoy."

Ah, that was right. Ginny and Lucius had a history. Indirectly, he had almost caused her death during her first year of school. Though Ginny didn't talk of it very often, everyone knew it had been traumatizing. Hermione couldn't imagine the fear she must have felt, knowing at eleven years old that there were gaps in her memory and something was desperately wrong. And to have been possessed by a fragment of Voldemort…perhaps that was why Harry and Ginny were so inextricably drawn to one another. Only they could understand what that was like.

"Then come with me to see him tomorrow, Gin."

Ginny looked at her like she had sprouted an extra head. "I'm a blood traitor, Hermione. He'd hex me on the spot."

"He has no wand. And if he doesn't care that a mudblood shows up at his flat, he won't care about a blood traitor." Hermione reached out and took Ginny's hand. "Seriously, he has changed. They've both changed. I wouldn't even think to do this if they were still the same as they were back then."

Ginny's hand twitched within hers. "All right. But I'm telling you, Hermione, if I…if he so much as breathes wrong, the game is up. I won't let you do it."

Hermione did not bother to tell Ginny that she would do what she wanted; it would only start a fight. She understood her friend's protectiveness and appreciated it. If Lucius handled himself the way he had the last two days, Ginny would come away as mystified but pleasantly surprised as she was. He would resent the unannounced visit, to be sure, but it had to be done.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Ginny asked as they stepped onto the sidewalk.

"Where we discussed last night."

"Don't we have to floo?"

Hermione shook her head. That was it; Ginny had to follow her in confused silence. Hermione's mind flipped and flopped with anxiety. Perhaps she was doing this too quickly. Just because Lucius had been temperate with her didn't mean Ginny's addition wouldn't cause him to regress into an utter bastard. Ginny wouldn't give him an easy go of it, either. If she knew the youngest Weasley, she would glower at him the entire time and make as many loaded comments as possible. Ginny was quite good at provocation when she wanted to be. She could only hope Lucius was equal to the task. And really, if he couldn't handle one angry witch, he wasn't the man she thought he was.

Not that she had any idea of what kind of man he was anymore. _What a fine mess_, she thought to herself. _Ron and Skeeter have pushed me this far, that I'm allying with the Malfoys and bringing Ginny to visit…_

Before she knew it, they were outside his flat. The window two stories up was open, the room that was probably his office. She thought about whistling or calling out, but he might not be in there and she was interested to see how he would do with no warning. Though he had been quite magnanimous the last two days, he had acted upon a few of the myriad opportunities to embarrass her, and now she had a way to discompose him in return.

She could feel Ginny's eyes boring into the back of her head as they climbed the stairs. She rang the bell and tried to tamp down on the nerves that were creeping into her stomach. Damn this man and the things his presence did to her stomach!

"Are you trying to tell me that Malfoy lives here?" Ginny hissed. "In muggle London?"

"No, Gin, I made you walk all the way here just so we could use a special fireplace." Ginny scowled, obviously affronted by her tone. Oh, she would have to watch the sarcasm. Malfoy had already brought a lot more of it to the surface than usual.

A scrabbling noise filled the broad hall. It was a sound that Hermione recognized as claws skidding on hardwood floors; the dogs were coming to the door. One of them barked a moment later.

"Shut it, Oberon," his voice sounded from just behind the door, only firm enough to quiet the dog. Then the metallic turn of a lock rang out and he pulled the door open.

"Hermione." He hid his surprise well. He was quite the actor; already he'd adopted her first name, because it would certainly look weird if he referred to his girlfriend as anything else. "And…Miss Weasley. Or is it Mrs. Potter?"

"Still Miss Weasley, thank you," Ginny said abruptly.

"Right," he said stoically. "If you wouldn't mind, I need five minutes. I wasn't aware I'd have guests this morning."

"Sure, by all means clear up the remains of whatever sick ritual you were doing."

"Ginny!" Hermione whispered sharply. Ooh, she was really going to let him have it, wasn't she? He remained calm, supremely so, even when one of the dogs, eager to get out and greet the guests, took one of his legs out from under him. He caught himself quickly and breathed an exasperated sigh.

"Hermione, would you mind taking them for a stroll?"

"Of course," she said quickly, wanting to disband the tension. He handed over a pair of leashes, held the dogs still long enough for her to clip them on, and then let them go. It was a good idea; even Ginny couldn't help but smile at the way the dogs danced around, unable to contain their excitement. Hermione offered the loop of one of the leashes to Ginny with a hesitant smile.

Lucius had already closed the door and both of them were being pulled down the stairs by the thrilled pups.

"All right," Ginny said a few minutes later. They had reached the sidewalk and were now moving along at a good pace, the dogs sniffing everything within range. "So he's got cute dogs." Titania pounced at a wrapper that blew across their path a moment later and they both laughed. "Ok, really cute dogs," Ginny amended.

Hermione gave her a sideways glance. "Does that really take him up a notch?"

"Well, they don't look timid or mistreated. It means he must care about them. That's a step up from caring about nothing but himself."

Hermione shook her head. Ginny was sometimes swayed by the strangest things. They crossed the street, stopped to let some children pet the dogs, and then began to meander back towards his flat.

"Gin," Hermione said cautiously, "you know if you push him far enough, he'll respond the way you want him to. It isn't really fair."

"This is a man who did everything he could to disparage my family and nearly killed me, not to mention _you_ and everyone you care about, once or twice. I'm sorry if forgiveness doesn't come easily," she huffed. "As far as I'm concerned his ego can take a beating or two as penance."

Hermione sighed as they approached the flat again. This was going to be ugly. When he opened the door, Lucius's face said that he knew it; Ginny didn't see it, but his mask slipped as Hermione brushed past him. She wondered how many times he had had to endure this self-flagellation.

"Would you ladies care for breakfast?" he asked neutrally once they were settled in the living room.

"Did you poison it?" Ginny speared.

"No," he replied, calm. "Do you want me to?"

She glared at him, temporarily defeated. Hermione hid a smile.

"We ate, thank you," she said, trying to stay upbeat. The tension was filling up the room like smoke.

"Well, I know you didn't come just to walk my dogs and turn down my food," he said. His foot was twitching ever so slightly. "So please enlighten me."

Hermione chose her words carefully. "Ginny has to…approve."

"Approve what?"

"Of our…ah…relationship." Hermione resisted the urge to use finger-quotes.

He sat back in his chair and nodded. His face was tense for a moment, and she was sure that ten different thoughts and emotions were flickering beneath the surface, but he revealed nothing.

"Very well. Miss Weasley, you may examine whatever you want in here in order to convince yourself that I am not going to harm Hermione."

"I know you're not stupid enough to leave anything out," Ginny spat. "It's not your flat I'm interested in. It's you, Malfoy."

His chin lifted almost imperceptibly. "I am sure," he said, his voice a little tight, "that Hermione has informed you that I do not have a wand. I can do no magic. Effectively, I am a squib. She is not in any danger from me."

"Men have other weapons," Ginny almost snarled.

"I have no ill intentions toward her virtue, if that is what you're worried about," he said coldly. "Besides," and here his eyes narrowed in a way that warned Hermione that something particularly cruel was coming, "if I had desired her, I could have had her ten times while she was drunk and incoherent in my guest room."

Hermione's mouth fell open. What was he thinking? And why did she feel insulted at _that?_ Her mind had zeroed in on the part where he effectively stated that he didn't desire her and taken serious offense. What the hell? Something was wrong with her if that was all she could hear in a malicious declaration like that! She cast a forceful look at him, scowling. It took a moment for the spite to fade from his face, but when it did she saw that he knew he had gone too far.

Ginny pulled her wand. "You son of a bitch!"

Hermione stood up quickly, grabbing Ginny's arms. It took a lot of strength to restrain her. Ginny was livid. At last she managed to wrestle her back down onto the couch.

Lucius took a breath, knowing full well that he'd nearly gotten his face hexed off. "I am sorry. When you back a snake into a corner, Miss Weasley, eventually it will strike." He swallowed. "Lions are not so different."

"They're very different, you asshole! You son of a…!" Ginny's voice cracked suddenly and tears began to stream down her face. She struggled free of Hermione and stood, her chest heaving and her wand pointed at Malfoy. "Do you know what he did to me? The Tom Riddle inside that book?"

"Ginny, please," Hermione whispered. She had never seen her friend like this and she wasn't sure she wanted to know what Ginny was referring to.

"No," Lucius said softly. "I don't know." He was pale and his hands fidgeted tellingly in his lap.

"It didn't matter that he was just a horcrux. It didn't matter that he was just some facsimile of a real person," Ginny whispered, her voice low and hard. "That didn't stop him from taking _my_ virtue."

Hermione felt as though she'd been punched in the stomach. Ginny had never said a thing. Not to Harry, not to her, not to her family, no one. Oh, poor Ginny. It was just another reason to hate Voldemort, heaped on top of a million others. Even now, six years gone, he was still twisting their hearts in their chests.

Lucius's eyes slipped closed. He was fighting for control. He looked genuinely upset, like he wanted to jump out of his skin with rage and regret. Ginny advanced on him, her hand trembling as she aimed her wand right between his eyes.

"It was because of you," she enunciated. "You slipped me that book. You might as well have done it yourself, Malfoy."

"I didn't understand what it was," he said, emotions half-disguised with roughness. "I didn't know that it was a piece of him. Please," he seemed to be pleading more with himself than with her, "if I had known, I would never have given it to a child. I was not that terrible of a person, even then."

"And now?" she was less than a foot away from him, her wand an inch from his face. "What are you now?"

He shocked both of them by slipping from the chair to his knees before her.

"A contrite man," he said softly, "who knows that his contrition comes too late."

He didn't bow or prostrate himself before her, nor did he ask for forgiveness, because they all knew there was none to be had. But there was something else. There was validation. And now, on his knees, his face unshuttered, his eyes struggling to contain what might have been tears, he was validating Ginny Weasley.

Hermione knew she was crying. She was numb with pain. Pain for Ginny most of all, but shockingly there was a fair amount of pain for Lucius, as well. She could see in his face how he loathed the knowledge that he had contributed to things like this. The crucible of failure and guilt had catalyzed him into something human.

A moment later Ginny's wand fell from her hand and she crumpled. Hermione would never understand the dynamics of two wounded souls; Malfoy moved forward to embrace her and she didn't fight it. She seemed to sink into him, her body shaking with sobs. He pressed her gently to his chest, cocooning her in long arms, and let his cheek rest against the crown of her head. They were a strange vision, the platinum and fire of their hair mingling.

Time had lost meaning. Hermione was frozen to the chair, crying as hard as Ginny, crying for everything, every pain and heartache she had ever felt. But slowly, slowly the festering, diseased atmosphere of anger that had filled the room before filtered out into the languid summer air. The light was dimming; a storm was moving in.

Lucius and Ginny remained very still. His eyes were closed, his face exhausted and painfully alert at the same time. Ginny's sobs were calming. No one moved or spoke until Ginny got the hiccups. Shifting carefully, Lucius rose with Ginny in tow and then deposited her on the couch.

He disappeared into the kitchen, dazed. A minute later he returned with two glasses of water. Ginny took one, gulping it gratefully. It neutralized her hiccups quickly. The other glass he held out to Hermione. She could only look at him, still stunned by the whirlwind.

"Right," he said hoarsely. "Firewhiskey."

He moved back toward the kitchen, taking the water with him. Hermione stood on rubbery legs and joined Ginny on the couch, spooning against her smaller form. She was dimly aware that the wind was beginning to blow strongly, billowing the curtains and casting leaves torn from trees in through the windows. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

She looked toward the kitchen. From here she could see half of him. He was leaning against the counter, almost willing it to hold him up. As she watched, he picked up the bottle of firewhiskey and poured a small amount into one glass. He moved it toward the second and thought better of it; instead, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a resolute swig. There were few situations that warranted a drink right out of the bottle, but this was one of them.

In spite of her recent overindulgence, Hermione took the proffered firewhiskey and tossed it down. It burned terribly, but it cleared her head, cleaving a path through all the emotional fuzz. His long gulp had probably served to do the same. However, when she looked over at him he looked as though he could barely move.

Rain began to come down, rattling its percussionistic symphony on the roof. He tried to rouse himself.

"The window in the study…the computer…"

"I've got it," she said.

* * *

When she closed the window, her hip bumped the laptop. The bump caused the screensaver to deactivate, displaying a blank desktop and one stark white instant messager box. It was the screenname that made her look twice.

**DracoD0rmiens (11:03:52): **Father?

**DracoD0rmiens (11:14:03): **is everything all right?

The cursor blinked. She looked at the clock. It was 11:17. It couldn't be…but who else would have that screenname? Maybe Draco knew more about muggle technology than she thought.

Hermione glanced out into the living room. She smiled sadly; both Lucius and Ginny were dead asleep. She arranged herself in front of the laptop. Lightning flashed outside, and she knew she should turn off the computer, but the allure of talking to Draco on instant messager was too great.

She typed and hit enter.

**BedLAM**** (11:19:31): **Draco?

The humor and irony of Lucius's screenname was not lost on her. Bedlam – a madhouse. L.A.M., his initials – although she didn't know what the A stood for. And taken separately, bed L.A.M. – a subtle command that would probably amuse him to no end. All in all, it was the perfect alias for him.

**DracoD0rmiens: (11:19:58): **No, it's the witch-king of angmar

Hermione stifled a laugh. Apparently Draco had gotten into some muggle literature, as well.

**BedLAM**** (11:20:14): **It's Hermione.

**BedLAM**** (11:20:40): **And I rather think you're more the Gollum type, myself.

**DracoD0rmiens (11:22:01): **What are you doing on Poppa Malfoy's computer

**BedLAM**** (11:22:54): **Do you call him that to his face

**DracoD0rmiens (11:23:10): **are you daft?

**DracoD0rmiens (11:23:22): **seriously, what's going on

**BedLAM**** (11:23:55): **had a bit of an incident. I told Ginny Weasley about the plan, and don't worry, she's keeping it secret, but she wanted to see for herself if Poppa Malfoy could be trusted

There was a long pause. Almost too long. Then:

**DracoD0rmiens (11:27:19): **I'm sure that went well

**BedLAM (11:28:03): **No fatalities. Where are you?

**DracoD0rmiens (11:29:00): **Mykonos. It's bloody hot.

**BedLAM**** (11:29:04): **Already? By the way, I had no idea you knew how to deal with muggle technology, I'm impressed

**DracoD0rmiens (11:29:20): **Dad insists it's easier than owls and frankly he's right. A computer can't shit on you.

Hermione had to stifle another laugh. She would never have thought that talking to him like this would be so entertaining. Draco had continued.

**DracoD0rmiens (11:30:15): **I have to say, muggles aren't dumb.

**BedLAM**** (11:30:30): **that's high praise coming from you.

**DracoD0rmiens (11:33:08): **so does everyone still have all their limbs and/or correct body parts?

**BedLAM**** (11:33:14): **Yes. Find anything interesting in Mykonos?

**DracoD0rmiens (11:34:44): **just a nude beach. Would be much more interesting if you were here.

She had to read it three times to process it. When she did, her eyes nearly fell out of her skull. Was Draco flirting with her? Of course not. He was being facetious. Right?

**BedLAM**** (11:35:50): **you wish

**DracoD0rmiens (11:36:10): **maybe I do

What was he doing? She was utterly perplexed. Shaking her head, she typed:

**BedLAM**** (11:39:36): **very funny, Malfoy

His response came quickly.

**DracoD0rmiens (11:40:12): **I'm not being funny.

**DracoD0rmiens (11:40:19): **I liked kissing you.

**DracoD0rmiens (11:40:21): **I want to do it again. But it's hardly appropriate when you're dating my father.

Her eyes narrowed and she typed furiously.

**BedLAM**** (11:40:39): **see, you are being funny, and it's not working

**DracoD0rmiens (11:41:15): **I am not.

**DracoD0rmiens (11:42:00): **He likes you and you will fall victim to his charms.

**BedLAM**** (11:43:50): **you're out of your gourd

**DracoD0rmiens (11:45:16): **I'm not joking. I really wish that I hadn't had to switch places with Poppa Malfoy.

Hermione was perturbed. What the hell? Draco was insinuating that they _both _liked her. That Lucius would attempt to make this more than a charade. Lucius was being nice enough but nothing in his demeanor suggested that he wanted a _real_ relationship. He had effectively stated only an hour before that he didn't desire her. Draco was off the mark. Was this even him?

**BedLAM**** (11:45:49): **Where is this coming from? Why do you need hundreds of miles and a computer screen to be honest and work up the courage to flirt with me?

Touche. The screen was blank and cursor blinking for several minutes. She was beginning to think he had actually left when he finally responded.

**DracoD0rmiens (12:01:09): **because I hardly have the right to, from any distance

Hermione chewed her lip. Well, this made some things clearer.

**BedLAM**** (12:03:51): **now I understand why you're helping me…

**DracoD0rmiens (12:04:26): **no, it's not like that. I'm not trying to get in your knickers or split you up from Weasley. I just didn't like seeing you unhappy.

**BedLAM**** (12:05:13): **you're never going to talk to me like this face to face, so why bother now?

**DracoD0rmiens (12:06:21): **Some strange alignment of the stars I suppose. Can I say it all, though? Before I save your marriage and you spend the rest of your existence with Weasel-by?

**BedLAM**** (12:07:23): **I thought I was going to fall to your father's charms…

**DracoD0rmiens (12:07:41): **oh look who's being funny now. You will, believe me, but you won't leave Weasley for him. He won't let you.

**BedLAM**** (12:08:08): **you certainly have all the answers don't you

Pause. Draco wanted to 'say it all'? Hermione was, whether she wanted to admit it or not, waiting with a strange, buzzing excitement for the things he was going to confess. Two minutes later he began to type.

**DracoD0rmiens (12:10:35): **what can I say, you're beautiful. And smart. And strong. You could kick my arse and once I stopped being afraid of that and started admiring it, it was kind of hopeless. Seeing you in that pub was like a revelation. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since. It took all the willpower I had not to kiss you while you were drunk because I knew you would sleep with me if I did and that isn't right. But that was probably my only chance.

Hermione felt faint. A strange feeling had begun to coil inside her. It was the sensation of being pulled in too many directions. The feeling of _feelings_ being strained. Her fingers moved of their own accord, and she winced even as she typed the message.

**BedLAM**** (12:14:02): **who says it was your only chance?


	4. Chapter 4

The lights flickered in that way they did when electricity was reconsidering its servitude to the human race. The storm outside had become a dark whirlwind of summer fury. The trees beyond the window bowed over in the wind and sheets of rain hit the pane of glass sharply.

It had become as dark as twilight and only the bright screen of the laptop lit the office of one Lucius Malfoy. Hermione was riveted by the little box of words. She had just typed something colossally stupid, something she wasn't even sure she meant. Was she giving Draco Malfoy a chance? Was she _inviting_ him to try to win her? Did she want to be won?

**DracoD0rmiens (12:19:05): **do you mean that?

She typed quickly. Her thoughts solidified as her fingers hit the keys.

**BedLAM (12:20:42): **I don't know what I mean right now but I can say this for sure: if you really like a girl, it doesn't say much if you're willing to yield her to someone else.

It took him a long time to respond. By the time he did the dark clouds were moving on and people were venturing outside to take inventory of the damage.

**DracoD0rmiens (12:39:13): **I'll keep that in mind.

And then:

**DracoD0rmiens signed off at 12:39:18.**

Damn him! Hermione sighed and put her forehead down on the desk. She sat there for a moment, a hundred times more confused than she was already feeling. She had no time to ponder it, however; at that moment she heard movement in the living room. One of them had awakened.

She only barely managed to close the instant message window before Lucius walked in.

"There you are," he murmured. He was a little less guarded than usual, probably because he had just woken up. The sleep hadn't helped. He still looked supremely exhausted. In spite of that it didn't take him long to return to himself; his eyes narrowed slightly and he asked, "What are you doing?"

"Just checking mail. My mum was supposed to send me something, and I figured while you two were sleeping…"

He nodded, his paranoia assuaged. Internally, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had always known that she was a good liar, due to her quick mind and ability to keep her wits under pressure, but rarely had she ever exercised that talent this much. She would be lying to the whole world when their plan went into effect.

He was looking out the window, frowning. He was far away and wouldn't be coming back any time soon. That was where she left him fifteen minutes later when she led a bleary-eyed Ginny out the door.

* * *

Hermione and Ginny walked home in silence. They had gained a third party; Ginny had awakened to find Titania trying to clean her like she was a puppy, and after that the dog wouldn't stop fussing over her. Perhaps she could smell Ginny's hurt. Now the supple animal walked at Ginny's side, looking up at her every so often. Lucius had torn himself away from his brooding long enough to say that he didn't mind lending the dog out as long as Fred and George stayed well away from her. That had brought a brief smile to Ginny's lips. She had informed him that Fred and George only tested on humans, and lately their subject of choice was Ron. The same tentative smirk graced Lucius's face after that; Hermione thought that now the rift might begin to heal.

She wished that men were more given to talking, especially Slytherin men. But if Draco could only bring himself to be honest with her from six hundred miles away, behind the cover of a monitor, there was absolutely no chance of Lucius opening up across the table. She felt bad leaving him. She had a feeling that Ginny's confession had cut him deep. He was feeling every word of it, every ounce of blame, and there was no one for him to turn to for comfort. Not that he would look for it.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Ginny said at last, when they were stopped at a crosswalk.

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

Ginny's hand fell on the top of Titania's head; the dog was tall enough that she was at exactly the right level. "I held it in for so long. I just…"

"It was his fault. He knows it."

The redhead nodded. "I never expected him to…feel remorse. You were right. He has changed."

The light changed and they crossed, Titania loping amicably next to them. The storm had brought a cold front, slicing the humidity out of the air, and the wind blew around the scent of earth absorbing rain.

"All of this seems so silly now," Hermione sighed.

"A little. But I think you should do it. It's high time someone gave Skeeter a taste of her own medicine. You don't read Witch Weekly, because if you did, you'd know that she took a few shots at me when Harry and I first made our relationship public."

"Nothing is too sacred," Hermione grumbled. "What an evil woman. I almost feel bad for her." Ginny gave her a look that said she was off her rocker. That was more like the girl she knew. Hermione smiled. "I did say almost."

* * *

The number of owls had reached epic proportions. There were easily fifty of them loitering outside, if not more, and a healthy stack of papers on the front stoop meant that many more had already come and gone.

Hermione groaned. "I guess I have to start reading some of these."

"I'll help you answer your fan mail," Ginny joked.

"Let's hope it's fan mail and not hate mail," Hermione muttered. They walked into her flat juggling the piles of letters. Ginny dropped hers on the couch, Hermione on the table, and Titania began what would prove to be a very long and arduous process of inspection. The grey dog walked around slowly, sniffing everything in her path, while the two women settled in and contemplated the stacks of parchment.

"Ready?" Ginny asked after a few minutes.

"No, but here goes." Hermione opened the first letter.

An hour passed with little but the rustle of paper and the clink of Titania's collar. Then a choked sound of rage escaped Ginny.

"What the hell!" she nearly shouted.

"What is it?" Hermione asked, startled.

"This…this…UGH!" Ginny whipped out her wand and in a second the letter was a pile of ash.

"What did it say?"

"Nothing. Just some double standards on paper. You know, how you should be ashamed of defiling the institution of marriage, and with a former Death Eater, no less…"

"Me? _I'm_ the one defiling the institution of marriage?" Hermione shook her head. "Never mind Ron, he's clearly blameless in all of this. Screwing some girl in Mykonos is perfectly normal..."

"Whoever wrote it is probably two hundred years old and hasn't gotten any since 1912."

Hermione had to crack a smile. Ginny was feeling better. There were bound to be a few bad letters in the bunch, anyhow. She couldn't take them personally, no matter how personal they were. She opened the next one.

_Hermione,_

_I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry. I want to see you. We can work this out, I know we can. I love you. Now, please, please stop seeing Malfoy. You've made your point. _

It was Ron's handwriting. She felt like she was far away from herself for a moment. The rest of the world withdrew, isolating her in a bell jar of heartache. It was suddenly hard to breathe. She leaned against the table, struggling to contain the breakdown that her mind wanted to succumb to. Accidentally she placed her hand on top of her quill and the sharp new point poked a precise little hole in her palm. The brief flare of pain and the tiny red droplet it drew brought her back to the present and all its stark reality. With a ragged breath, she turned the paper over and picked up the quill.

_Ronald,_

_Your apology means that you're actually guilty, and in light of that I won't be accepting it any time soon. And do you honestly think you can tell me what do to after this?_

With a sniffle she pulled off her wedding band, oblivious to Ginny's curious look. She folded the paper, put it back inside the envelope, and dropped the wedding band in before sealing it. She crossed out her own name and wrote his. _Ronald Weasley._

"Are you all right?" Ginny asked.

"No."

Nonetheless, Hermione stood up and walked over to the window. There were five owls outside. She took the letter from one and gave it her own correspondence.

Ginny hugged her from behind. "Is it over?"

Hermione placed her hands on Ginny's arms, which were clasped around her shoulders.

"I think so."

* * *

Three days later

She had gone from staring at the computer to staring at the phone. Out of some ridiculous hope she had added Draco's screenname to her list; he hadn't signed on since that stormy afternoon. It was very like him to confess to feelings she never would have suspected him of having and then disappear immediately afterwards. Perhaps his own honesty had been too much for him.

Hermione frowned, contemplating the character of Draco Malfoy. He had probably only told her how he felt because he believed that there was no chance of them ever being together or her reciprocating. She knew he also thought that his father would win the seduction game. But if he just _told_ him that he liked her, she was fairly sure that Lucius would back off. She wasn't sure that Lucius was even interested, but if he was…

She chewed her lip. Even a year past fifty, she couldn't deny that he was a good looking man. She had no doubt of his so-called charms, either; he could talk his way into or out of almost anything, including someone's knickers. She would have to be careful.

But Draco…was he right? Was she lacking any kind of feelings for him? She could say with certainty that he was a good kisser. He'd impressed that much upon her. He wasn't painful to look at, either. His appeal was not the same as Lucius's; there was too much of his mother in him for that, but he could hardly be called unattractive. It was just that she had never noticed before, owing to the fact that she hated his guts. She suspected that the more she looked at him now, the more pleasing she would find him. These Malfoy men were dangerous.

Hermione contemplated her phone. It sat on the night table, the battery indicator light blinking green. At last, she picked it up and opened it. She took a breath and typed a text message.

_Help._

Five minutes went by. Then the phone vibrated.

_With what?_

Her fingers worked quickly.

_I'm considering another bender at the pub._

The response was faster this time.

_Do you need an intervention?_

_Maybe just a distraction._

_Can't someone else distract you?_

_I've already bothered everyone else._ It was true, she'd seen Harry and Ginny two days ago and spent yesterday with her parents. There was no one else she cared to spend time with at the moment. Except, paradoxically, the man on the other end of the phone, though she told herself that was more because she wanted to check on him and see if he could contact Draco to call off his search. She texted again.

_Don't act like you don't want to._

_Oh, right, as your boyfriend I'm supposed to like distracting you._

_We need to talk about that._

_We haven't even been on our first date and already 'we have to talk'? You're such a woman._

_Ha ha. _Hermione sent him the name of a nearby restaurant and a time, and then tossed her phone into her purse. Either he would show up or he wouldn't. She didn't care either way.

* * *

He did show up, and it reminded her of something she had forgotten. When a Malfoy showed up, he _showed up_. Lucius looked as good in muggle clothing as he did in expensive robes. She had noticed this before, but in the comfort of his own flat he had been relatively casual. What he wore was still casual, but every inch of it looked designer and he looked like the model. Was he wearing aviators? He may as well have jumped out of an issue of GQ.

As he made his way towards her a table of four women turned their heads to gape at him. Before she knew what she was doing, Hermione was giving them a dirty look. He noticed this like he noticed everything and looked quite smug with himself when he sat down.

"Feeling possessive, are we?"

"Shut up," she bit off, embarrassed.

He smirked, but it faded quickly. "You look terrible."

"Thanks."

His eyes did a quick once-over and settled exactly where she hoped they would not – the pale stripe around her left ring finger. "Ah," was all he said. He settled in his seat and picked up the menu. She watched him over her menu, expecting sarcastic commentary at any moment, but he was resolutely silent. He raised an eyebrow when she ordered a bottle of pinot grigio and that was it.

At last, after they had ordered, he spoke.

"How is Miss Weasley doing?"

"Well," Hermione answered, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It seems like a weight has been lifted from her."

"Had she…never told anyone?" he asked, wincing slightly. It was a very subtle movement of his face, one that someone else might not have noticed. He was still feeling it, and very acutely if he was asking about her.

"No one. You and I were the first."

He shifted in his chair. If a metaphorical weight had been lifted from Ginny, it had now been placed upon him. The slight tension in his lips betrayed that.

"She's thinking about telling Harry and maybe her mum," Hermione said, sipping her wine. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if Harry already knows. He's very intuitive when it comes to…him."

Lucius nodded and followed her lead, pouring himself a healthy glass of wine. "I do regret it," he said quietly. "I…didn't choose her on purpose. It was just the first opportunity that presented itself, and I…" He lapsed into a moody silence.

"We're just a barrel of laughs, aren't we?" Hermione mused.

In response, he lifted his glass and drained it in one uninterrupted tilt.

"Careful," she cautioned. "You don't want to end up like me last week."

"It will take a lot more than one glass of wine for that." He refilled the glass, but left it alone. After a moment of thought, he said, "I am sorry about your separation. The end of a marriage is…" he seemed to choose his words carefully, "difficult."

She sighed, nodding. A moment later she lifted her eyes cautiously to his. They were a bit distant, remembering something that no doubt related to the dissolution of his marriage. If she struck now, while he was displaying signs of introspection and openness, maybe, just maybe he'd…

"Why did you and Narcissa separate?" It felt odd to say her name since she didn't know the woman and probably never would. His eyes snapped back to reality very quickly. He blinked once, twice, and then – curses – his face slipped back into the now-familiar mask of neutrality.

"Come now, Hermione," he said, his smooth sarcasm returned, "isn't there a rule against talking about exes on a first date?"

"This can't--" she began, but paused as the waitress arrived and set their food in front of them. "That's what I wanted to talk about," she continued. "There's not much point to this anymore. Ron more or less told me that he's guilty. Draco isn't going to find anything in Mykonos that will prove otherwise."

"More or less? That's hardly definitive. I don't know why he would tell you he did it if he didn't, but I have told a few whoppers in my life that made very little sense. Give both of them a chance," Lucius shrugged. "Besides, Draco isn't just looking for things related to you. We're going to need more than that to bring her down, and something to distract her so that she doesn't realize we're on her trail."

"Can't we think of anything else?" she sighed.

"Am I that aversive to pretend to date?"

"No," she said quickly. "I just…I don't know if I can handle the fallout. Some people are going to think I'm a terrible person." No, she wasn't going to think about the truth – that she was afraid that she might actually fall for him. Already feelings were creeping up on her, feelings she would never have believed she'd experience in a million years. She _liked_ Lucius Malfoy. She liked him as a person, perhaps even a friend, and enjoyed the subtle mystery of his presence.

"You'll be vindicated when we get her." He looked at her thoughtfully before spearing a haricot vert. "Sometimes the suffering is worth the result."

She couldn't control herself. "I'll just tell myself that while we're out on dates."

He snorted and gave her an unappreciative look. But then his face went back to that smug, knowing look from when he'd first arrived. He delivered his next comment with all the skill of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. "Well, Hermione, you don't appear to be suffering too much during _this_ date."

Hermione stuffed a pumpernickel roll in her mouth. She knew when she was beaten.

* * *

She felt much better walking out of the restaurant than she had walking in. She hated to admit it, but it had as much to do with his presence as it did with her being full and tipsy.

"You really have no tolerance," he commented once they were out on the sidewalk.

"You barely helped me with that bottle of wine," she responded.

"I had two glasses," he said, "and I'm not in the habit of letting alcohol solve my problems."

"Oh? Then how _do_ you solve your problems, Lucius?"

"That depends upon the nature of the problem."

She rolled her eyes. Always so cryptic! Then again, it had been a broad question. And for another thing, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know how he solved certain problems. There was still much she didn't know about him and given his past there was the distinct possibility that some of his solutions were less than innocent.

"Are you--" she began, when suddenly the heel of her shoe hit a crack in the sidewalk and the rest of the question was cut off by the realization that she was going to fall. She squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating impact with the pavement, but it never came. He caught her awkwardly and pulled her back to balance, but in the process they ended up in a strange half-embrace.

He was halfway through what would have been a sufficiently acerbic statement when a bright, sudden light made them both start. She realized what it was before him. It was the flash of a camera. She wrenched out of his grasp, drawing her wand. Across the street a man with mud-brown hair was running, trying to put some distance between them – obviously the sneaky paparazzo. She would have liked nothing more than to hex his hair right off his head.

"Not worth it," Lucius said, touching her wrist briefly. "It's what we wanted anyway, right?"

Hermione frowned and pocketed her wand. How odd it was to be told that it wasn't worth it by someone who, in the past, had reportedly hexed people purely for recreation. She wondered if he would be so sensible if he had a wand. "Right. They're just…so bloody rude, sneaking up on you like that."

"Just be glad he didn't get a picture of you falling on your arse, you lush."

She glared at him. "Do you see that crack in the sidewalk? It's practically a fault line!"

He smiled and held out his arm. And once again, she couldn't be angry at him. This was a serious, serious problem. She took his arm and they walked in companionable silence, one couple out of many meandering through the mild night.

* * *

It was bizarre to be walked to her door by him. He had been a perfect gentleman for the most part. She hadn't intended upon this being their 'first date', but evidently life had other plans. It was almost disturbing how much seeing him had cheered her up. Perhaps it was that with him she had a mission, a meaning…the summer was aimless as she didn't have to teach, and that only meant more time to be depressed over this whole miserable situation. He pulled her out of that, reminding her that she had a purpose: bring down Rita Skeeter, newswoman from hell.

"I suppose we should plan our second date," she said when they arrived at her door. She rummaged for her key, and when she found it she turned to face him.

He struggled to contain a smirk. "I'll call you."

"You are terrible." She jabbed the key into the lock. He wasn't kidding when he called it relationship charades, was he!

"Hermione," he said as she unlocked the door.

"What?" she demanded, a tad crossly.

"You asked me how I solve my problems."

She turned toward him, intrigued that she might get an answer, and found him a lot closer than before. Her heart beat faster at the proximity, and, damn her, it wasn't out of fear.

"I find," he said, his voice that refined purr that could stroke anyone in the right places, "that a good snog cures many ills."

Oh, lord, what a line, but she was buying it hook, line, and sinker. Before she knew it, his fingers had lifted her chin and his lips were descending on hers. They were not forceful, but she could no more resist them than she could forget her own name. In spite of the fact that her mind was screaming, she tilted her head and parted her lips. Fuck her mind; it had told her to marry Ron.

He tasted like the after dinner mint. His tongue was gentle, deft, only just acquainting itself with hers before withdrawing. But that was not the end of it. His lips remained, touching, teasing, cajoling with a sensuality she would not have thought him capable of. This was a man who had kissed many women in his time, but she didn't care because right now he was kissing her.

The tip of his tongue brushed her bottom lip and he pulled away. Oh, hell. Oh, fucking hell, her knees were weak. He gave her hand a slight squeeze, and then he was gone. What a bloody Casanova!

Hermione leaned against the door of her flat. What was it Jack said on Lost? Five seconds to let the fear in…she counted to five, letting every misgiving, every viciously rational diatribe, every no and never and shouldn't fly through her head. And then, with one very deep breath, she pushed it all away.

She had kissed Lucius Malfoy and liked it. And that was that. She opened the door, for the first time not having to step over a pile of letters (she hadn't been in the news for three whole days), and walked into her flat.

She almost screamed when she saw who was waiting for her.

"Ron!"

He turned, his face grim. Oh, God. Oh, if she had opened the door before the kiss…Lucius would be dead, murdered by Ron. Had he heard them? Surely he'd be yelling, hexing her, running after Lucius. Had he…?

"We have to talk, Hermione."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Hey everyone, buckle your seatbelts, a lot happens in this chapter…including smut! Enjoy and as always leave me some feedback!

* * *

She recovered slowly, reeling in her wits and registering that she had best not look guilty. Then again, Ron had never been the most observant person; sometimes she felt that he could only understand these kinds of things if she more or less clubbed him over the head with them. But in the last few days life had been such that this would be the one time he figured it out. She wasn't going to take any chances.

"Ron, you really should have owled or called."

"It's my flat, I shouldn't have to ask permission to visit it," he bit off.

"It _used_ to be your flat," she retorted. "My name is on the lease, not yours. You moved in here. So, if I don't want you here, it isn't your flat anymore."

"I knew this was the only way I'd actually be able to talk to you," he said, his jaw clenched. His face turned dark, his freckles standing out like they always did when he was mad. "Did I interrupt a little date?"

Hermione felt anger spear in her gut. He had no right, no right at all, to be judging her. "Watch yourself, Ronald. Take that tone again and you will be out of here so fast that you won't know what hit you. And you know I can make good on that."

The muscles in his jaw twitched. He knew very well she could and _would_ make good on that threat; she had done it before.

"Fine."

Hermione sighed and rubbed her temples. Her head felt like it was ready to burst. Why couldn't things ever be simple for her? She put down her purse and her keys and after two deep breaths, she looked at him.

Her husband was an attractive man. Every now and then it would hit her, that he was in his own way gorgeous, and it always felt like a tremendous epiphany. The first epiphany had led to their first kiss, the second to their first time in bed, and the third and beyond had landed her right here, right now, married to him but full of turmoil. They had never abated, though. Less than two months ago she'd had one. She had woken up before him and watched him as he slept, still and peaceful. For the first time in their entire relationship, she noticed his eyelashes. They were ridiculously long and lighter than his hair, almost strawberry blond. It had made her smile; after so much time, there was still something new, something to notice and fall in love with.

There were other things about him that she loved and probably always would. Ron had blue eyes, but dark blue, like marble. His hair was longer now that he was older, a bit shaggier, a bit punk rock. That reference was, of course, lost on him. He was as tall as any of his brothers, easily six foot three, and no longer awkward. Ron had become a well-formed man, masculine where he had once been gangly. He had learned a lot, too. For all that, though, he was still the same person she'd met thirteen years ago. The person that had always loved her but could never manage to express it right.

"What did you come here to say, Ron?" she asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"A lot of things," he replied, shifting from one foot to the other nervously. "And you know I'm no good at this, so please just let me talk."

She nodded. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"I'm not even sure what happened in Mykonos. I had no intention of being with someone else, none at all. I was out with people from work, just relaxing, having a few drinks, and then all of a sudden I was with this woman and…I don't know. I don't know what happened. I didn't feel like I was in control of myself. Hermione, I love you, and I would never want to hurt you like that."

"Why didn't you just say that two weeks ago, Ron?" she asked, sadly exasperated. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He fidgeted, then leapt over the precipice. "Did you ever…feel like…maybe we jumped into things too soon?"

It was only the physiological limits of her facial anatomy that kept her jaw from hitting the floor. He was going to pull this card out _now_?

"We were just kids," he sighed. "The only thing we had was each other. We were so afraid of losing that after it took so damn long to find. And my mum and dad have said it was the same after the first war. Everyone was just in a rush to get married, to hold on to the people they loved, because they'd all seen how it could end tomorrow. Sort of reckless…"

It had taken a long time to find. She had known that Ron was in love with her after the Yule Ball fourth year. At that time she wasn't too impressed with him, but the next three years had formed them into a unit. By the advent of the real war, she was just waiting for him to realize it. When he did it had felt so good, so right…

"So marrying me was reckless?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what _do_ you mean?"

"I mean that we didn't think things through. We just did what felt right at the time. And maybe it's not right anymore."

Ronald Weasley was talking to her about not thinking things through. Surely Armageddon was approaching. She needed to sit down. He recognized this and got a chair under her just in time.

Hermione's scattered thoughts tried to make sense. It was true, nearly every couple that had formed during or after the war had married in due haste. Harry and Ginny bucked the trend for their own reasons, but it was unlikely that they would ever split. Eventually they would cave to Mrs. Weasley's insistences and get married. And as bad a track record as fresh-out-of-school marriages had, the ones that had formed in the wake of Voldemort had proved curiously resilient. Except for hers, it seemed.

"I've been wanting to say these things to you for about six months," he continued, sitting across from her. "But I'm too much of a coward. And when this thing with the cheating came along, I thought…I thought you'd dump me straight away…and I wouldn't have to break your heart more."

Tears welled up in her eyes and she didn't check them. "Then why are you breaking it now, Ron?"

"This insanity with Malfoy. Hermione, I am not worth going anywhere _near_ him just to make a point!"

"I'm not making a point, Ronald!" she shouted. The wounded anger grew and propelled her out of her seat. "Malfoy has been kind. He's been there for me. Which is more than can be said for you!" Never mind that she wasn't even sure which Malfoy she was talking about. Probably both.

"He's a git, Hermione." Ron's temper was rising to match hers. "He knows you're vulnerable and is trying to take advantage of that. He doesn't care about you."

Grieving anger churned in her stomach, filled up her chest, made her want to scream at the top of her lungs. It was a level of rage she rarely attained. It was terrifying because she knew it was this kind of fury that had created the term 'crimes of passion'; right now she felt like she could murder him. He never changed. Never. He only truly wanted her when someone else threatened his claim. Otherwise he was perfectly content to take her for granted.

Certainty punched a hole through the fog of anger. She didn't calm, not exactly; it was more that her ire funneled into decision, suppressing the out-of-control impulses. Later she could scream. Later she could be an emotional tornado, breaking things, cutting up photographs, dismantling anything that would remind her of him. But right now…

"If you came for a divorce, Ron, you've got it," she said coldly. "Send the papers. I'll sign them. I don't want to see you again."

* * *

Six days later

People had come and gone, mainly her mum, Ginny, and Harry. Both sets of twins that she knew, the Patils and the Weasleys, had come to visit as well. Harry was here today, quietly supportive, and she loved him for it because it meant he had picked her over Ron. That didn't happen often.

"That's it!" he exclaimed as yet another owl flew into her living room window. "I'm making this apartment Unplottable."

"Don't you need a permit from the Ministry?"

"I'll get the permit later. I don't know how you can stand them!"

"The owls?"

He looked at her, his green eyes concerned. "It's not healthy to be getting howlers when you're in this state."

She shrugged. "I brought it on myself. I knew they'd come, just not that they'd coincide with the worst week of my life."

"Oh, Hermione," he sighed, "I'm so sorry for all of this."

"None of it is your fault."

Harry sat down, knocking over a pile of mail in the process. He left it there. He'd seen her do the same at least five times. He knew her routine by now; she waited for the howlers to trigger, attempted to ignore them, sorted through to make sure nothing real or important was mixed in, and then threw the remainder in the fire.

"So…Malfoy, huh?"

Hermione raised her eyes to look at him. She knew without asking that Ginny had told him. The pictures in Witch Weekly hadn't shocked him, and the only way that was even remotely possible was if he knew they weren't real.

"I know you won't believe it, but he – they've changed."

Harry chewed his lower lip. "I want to see it for myself."

"Ginny's already sized him up and approved. Do you really have to do it, also?"

He looked at her like she was daft. "Yes."

Hermione sighed. Harry would be nicer than Ginny but it would be terrifically awkward. There was also the off chance that Lucius wouldn't put up with another rude surprise. Still, he had proven himself to be incredibly…

He had proven himself to be incredible.

"All right. I'll ask him to come over." She stood up and retrieved her phone. She'd been steadfastly ignoring it for the last few days. She wanted to truly wallow in her grief, and that meant no interruptions.

It had been six days. She hadn't contacted him at all, and it was a curious kind of withdrawal as she'd spent half the previous week with him. She should have expected a message or two. The first was the third day after their 'date'.

_Am I really that terrible of a kisser?_

She had driven Lucius Malfoy to insecurity. It was quite a feat, but she felt no triumph. The next was the fifth day.

_Did one of your overzealous fans kill you?_

That was his idea of expressing concern. The third message had only come forty minutes ago.

_I'm coming over._

Evidently she wouldn't have to ask him to come by after all. And with him initiating it, she could hardly be blamed for having Harry there. He was walking into his own uncomfortable doom. Hermione sighed and dropped the phone back into the drawer it had spent most of the last week in. It was nearing the time for her to rise from the mire of her depression, but not just yet.

* * *

True to form, he made an entrance. He knocked, ever polite, but as she moved toward the door she heard a scuffle and a curse. When she opened the door he looked murderous.

"Bloody owls!" he seethed.

Hermione had to smile. In one glance she surmised what had angered him. An owl had left a deposit in his hair. Draco's comment about computers not being able to shit on you popped into her head and she bit the inside of her lip.

"I've got it," she murmured. In a moment the crisis was averted; she used a spell to clean it up and his pale hair lay glossy and undisturbed.

"Thank you," he huffed, not even bothering to try to regain his lost dignity. "You really should make this place Unplottable like my flat, so the owls can't find you."

"Don't you need a permit for that?" Harry spoke up from behind her. His voice was even, almost conversational, but he wasn't fooling anyone. "And a wand?"

In spite of the unpleasant surprise and the blatant dig, Lucius didn't miss a beat. "I have a permit, Mr. Potter. And a very talented son."

Harry kept his silence, though they all knew what he was thinking.

Lucius's eyes lingered on him for a moment, unreadable, and then flickered to Hermione. She was sure she looked awful, but something told her he'd know she was upset even if she looked immaculate. She wasn't sure what that meant.

"What is it?" His voice was low and cautious. He didn't like Harry's presence, not one bit.

"Ron and I are getting divorced."

He exhaled slowly as the statement hung in the air. "Thank your lucky stars that the media hasn't gotten hold of that yet."

"Bite your tongue, Malfoy."

He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," she sighed. "Sorry that I wasted six years of my life on him."

Lucius frowned. "It's not a waste. You loved him once."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she settled for walking away. Lucius was unused to being dismissed, but covered it well by closing and bolting the door. When he turned back, she was gone. It was him and Harry, and though they were only ten feet apart, the friction in the air between them could have filled a blimp.

Hermione watched the two of them from behind a half-closed door. She couldn't talk about failed marriages with Malfoy in front of Harry. Harry didn't understand and his presence would hinder Lucius's candor. Right now she only wanted honesty. Though she had to give him credit; he'd already shown more care and emotion in Harry's presence than she ever would have expected.

Now, though, the two of them were like animals sizing one another up before fighting for control of the pack. It was a man thing, she knew, but different because of their history. Lucius had never directly harmed Harry, but he had done something worse – he had stood aside and watched dispassionately while others did. He had supported the quest for Harry's death, actively participated in it, and once reveled in dismantling the Boy Who Lived.

And for his part, Harry had sent him to prison, if Azkaban could accurately be called that. Harry had sent him to hell. That hell had followed him, reborn into unwilling servitude under Voldemort and then powerlessness when he gave up his wand. No matter what grand show he put on, she'd bet her life savings that he held a grudge.

"Still scheming, Malfoy?" Harry said.

"Always, Potter." Lucius allowed a half-smirk to lift the left corner of his mouth. "I don't know much else."

"At least you admit it now."

"Be glad it is to your favor," Lucius returned. "You know what it's like when it's not."

Harry's hand twitched. Hermione prayed that she would not have to prevent Harry from hexing him. She didn't think he would do it, but Lucius wasn't pulling any punches. It was a mark of his boldness that he would provoke Harry when he was completely defenseless. It was also, perhaps, a mark of how much he'd changed. Any sensible Slytherin would recognize a discrepancy in power and behave accordingly, and while Lucius was still a Slytherin, it was becoming increasingly evident that he'd relinquished some of his House's tenets.

"If you have things to say to me, Mr. Potter, say them. I can do nothing to retaliate, but I won't stand here forever. My masochism has limits."

Harry was silent, thoughtfully so. After a long, excruciating minute Lucius turned back toward the door; Harry's voice stopped him.

"My sadism has limits, too. Very strong ones. But answer me this, Malfoy."

Lucius paused, turning only enough to show Harry his profile.

"Do you really care about Hermione?"

"Would I be here if I did not?" His answer was quick, ready, raw.

"She asked you to come."

"No," Lucius shook his head. "She didn't." He turned his back on Harry and was out the door before the other man could formulate a response.

Hermione leaned against the door, eyes closed. She was relieved that they had not come to blows. She was proud of them, too, for recognizing what they had once been and choosing not to perpetuate it now.

"Hermione?" Harry called.

"In here," she sighed.

Harry stood on the other side of the door, instinctively knowing that she needed the barrier. "Is it true? You didn't tell him to come?"

"No. He was already on his way here."

Harry was quiet for a long time. Then,

"Well, I guess that explains how he got here so fast."

* * *

Two days went by and this time he did not text. She knew that facing Harry had been difficult. The two of them had exchanged very few words and cloudy sentiments, at best, but the ten minute confrontation had surely felt like the toil of hours.

Though she hadn't expected any visitors today (what day was it, anyway?), Harry knocked on her door. He was in quidditch robes and looked like he was in a rush. Her suspicion was confirmed a moment later when he wrestled a piece of paper from inside his robe and handed it over.

"Hermione, I can't stay, I've got a trial with Oliver Wood's team, but you should read this." He was halfway out the door when he paused and looked back. "Malfoy sent it."

_Mr. Potter,_

_It is perhaps a great flaw, or a great strength, that a Slytherin finds himself unable to speak plainly in the presence of those who endanger him. Be it physical danger, emotional, whatever, it is a fact. As such this is a cowardly way to deal with things, but I'm sure you prefer it to another face-to-face meeting._

_Being much younger than me, you are all too familiar with growing pains. It is that time where your body grows unchecked, faster than even it can handle, and you ache with the exhaustion of it. Forgive the poorly elucidated metaphor, but at the half-century mark that is where I find myself – growing too fast, not wanting to do it at all, tempering my mistakes and the demons that many do not think me capable of having with an almost suicidal willpower. It is an exquisite punishment, one I alternately love and hate, much like those who brought it upon me (myself included)._

_Apologies are meaningless so I will not make them. Perhaps the best penance comes in action. Know, then, that in the most colloquial terms, I owe you one. Call upon it tomorrow or never, for great or ill; what you ask means little to me. I will do it. You know I have only offered blind servitude to one other, a colossal mistake, and I am loath to make it twice. Not that I believe you have such dark agendas…for if you did, this world would be a very different place._

_But we men are full of secrets, aren't we? One favor, Potter, one task, no questions…and then we are even. Tabula rasa, if you can stand it._

_Yours,_

_L. Malfoy _

* * *

In the wake of the letter, she finally emerged from her flat. She showered, beat her curls into obedient submission, put on a bit of makeup to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes, and dressed in something other than sweatpants. It was warm outside, a tinge of humidity in the air. The sun would feel good on her skin. Besides, she could use the vitamin D; staying in the house depleted it and that only made her more depressed, completely independent of everything else.

Once outside, she was glad that something had at last propelled her back into reality. It was sickeningly beautiful out. She turned back for a pair of sunglasses; they felt good to wear because they provided some protection against the story written on her face. They shielded her on both sides. With them firmly in place, she felt her back straighten and she breathed a deep lungful of summer air.

A slight breeze blew her skirt around her knees and heat kissed her shoulders. The rhythmic crunch of her flip flops became meditative, laced with the chirping of birds and the whisper of moving leaves. She was at Lucius's flat before she knew it. There was only one problem; he wasn't answering the door.

Hermione sighed, blowing a curl out of her eyes. Where would he be? She tried to put herself in his shoes but found it impossible; there was no one who could predict the whereabouts of the mugglized, grudgingly repentant Lucius Malfoy except Lucius Malfoy. She was just about to turn away from the door when it was pulled open.

It was Draco.

"Hi," she managed. "Where's--?"

She yelped a moment later when his hand clamped around her wrist and he pulled her inside. She found herself leaning against the closed door staring straight into his grey eyes. In the wake of the bold move he looked the slightest bit unsure. He was probably running over his options in his head; acknowledge the flirtation, pretend that it had never happened, apologize and offer excuses, try to wiggle out of it – but his body language didn't look like he was trying to wiggle out of anything.

After a minute he lifted a hand and gently pulled the sunglasses from her face.

"That's better," he murmured. His eyes took her in. They were less fettered than Lucius's, but still held enough ambiguity to create a worm of apprehension in her stomach. And a worm of something else…

It took her by surprise, the warm flush that spread through her at his appraising eyes. She hadn't thought it would be possible to feel anything remotely resembling physical attraction for a while; the rejection that divorce entailed had a way of crushing that. But here she was, eight days separated, letting his eyes devour her and enjoying it.

Swallowing, she returned the favor. Draco was tall and lean, the epitome of fitness. His jaw looked like it had been carved by Michelangelo. Somewhere along the line he'd found a better use for his hair products; though his hair was about the same length and the same impossible blonde, it was styled in a much more flattering, modern way. Like his father he wore muggle clothes well. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt but he made them look expensive, which, no doubt, they were. If she had met this Draco Malfoy on the street with no prior knowledge of who he was or what he had done, she would have thought him damn near irresistible. There was just something about the way he was looking at her; it made her body rage with primitive lust and she was entirely unprepared for it.

She would never know if it was her or Draco that moved first. Either way, they met at the lips. His arms slid around her effortlessly and the pressure of his body against hers was enough to shut off the rational part of her brain. She needed this. She needed…

_To be shagged silly? To be reminded that she was beautiful, desirable, worthwhile? To control him…?_

He had thrown caution to the wind. He was kissing her like a man returned from a long war, one that had tested his very psyche – an apt comparison. His eyes were closed, his hands restless on her back, and his mouth equally restless against hers.

She sank against his chest, luxuriating in the kiss. His tongue plied hers, coaxed it, provoked it, until at last she retaliated and pushed forward into his mouth. It drew a quiet, fantastic sound of pleasure out of him. That sound lit her nerve endings on fire in a way she never would have expected. Every stroke of his tongue, every move of his scalding hand beneath her tank top was reducing her to a puddle of pure desire. She had never felt quite like this with Ron, not ever…

He broke the kiss with a heavy breath and his mouth went to her neck. She gasped, tilting her head back automatically. His lips were like two feathers, tickling and driving her to a madness that was not at all funny. The searing of his tongue along the column of her neck made her draw a shaky breath between her teeth.

Through the fog of arousal she registered that he was pushing the spaghetti straps of her tank top down her shoulders. Then his hands went around her and worked quickly and efficiently on the closure of her bra. If she had thought for even a moment that Draco Malfoy would be removing it, she would have worn a better one…

Oh, heavens. The bra fell away, freeing her torso to the warm air and the even warmer vacuum of his body heat. He kissed her again, his right hand cupping her breast, his thumb brushing over the dusky peak of her nipple. She knew she was trembling. This was all wrong but all right at the same time. She should not be doing this. It was too soon, this was reckless, was he the right Malfoy...? Instead of making her want to pull away, the conflict was producing the most potent craving she had ever felt. She didn't think she could stop.

She could feel it in him, too. His heart was beating fast and his expensive jeans could not contain the obvious arousal against her abdomen. He wanted her. Her former worst enemy wanted her badly. If that wasn't a heady shot of power, what was?

She realized, as she worked on the fly of his jeans and watched his eyes darken with desire, that a part of her already loved him. She loved him for changing. She loved him for daring to want her in spite of it all. She even loved the contradiction of his distant, calculated confession and this very unexpected, impulsive claim. It was one thing to talk about tolerance and equality; it was entirely another to act on it, to discard his bloodline in his _father's_ apartment…

For some reason that made her wetter than the rainforest. He wrestled her hands away from his waist and pressed her against the door, the full weight of his body against her. She hadn't realized that he removed his shirt; his bare, muscled torso on hers promised more and she was unprepared for how much she wanted it. His lips rested a centimeter from the spot where her neck and her shoulder met. His warm breath ghosted over the sensitive skin as he breathed, fast and hard. They were on the cusp of something, something that was best done quickly and decisively lest they lose their nerve.

He released her but only long enough to propel her to the floor. That broke the tentative stalemate. She tugged at him, he tugged at her, and in moments they were divested of the last barriers. The need to touch and taste took over; his tongue flickered across a taut nipple and she drank in the way he inhaled sharply, his brows knitting, when her hand found his straining length. In a tangle of limbs and skin he sought her center, touching her moisture and lazily spreading it until the pads of his fingers moved slickly over her clitoris.

The feeling was instantaneous and electrifying. She squirmed beneath him, pinned below his body and his hungry eyes. She was going to have sex with Draco Malfoy and she was just fine with it as long as he…kept…doing…that…

He did, his fingers making precise, pressurized circles. Pretense was gone. She moaned and quivered and watched him watching her, his shrewd, sex-hazed eyes inflaming her as much as the activities of his hand. Pleasure was building upon delicious pleasure and she was dangerously close to what might prove to be the most intense orgasm of her life.

He pushed her to it a moment later, when he slithered unexpectedly down her body and replaced his fingers with his tongue. She shuddered and bit back a scream as pleasure boiled over into ecstasy, spilling and pooling and exploding through her entire body. He held her there, his tongue merciless, until she could no longer contain the cries that wanted to rip out of her.

She gasped and lay boneless as his body covered hers once again. Her mind was still scattered as she watched him reel in his control, pale eyelashes flickering over grey irises. Gently his hands traveled behind her knees and eased them upward. She recovered enough sense to know what he wanted, what he needed…

With her cooperation and a practiced hand, he guided their bodies together. She bit her lip, floundering for her own control. Her insides were still singing from the orgasm and his intrusion only made them sing louder. Sex was sometimes overrated; this was not one of those times. He felt like the missing piece of her puzzle as he began to move.

Bracing himself on either side of her, he let instinct do the work. He pressed in and out of her at a reasonable pace, his face flushed and enraptured. Hermione purred beneath him. She was lost in the slick friction his throbbing sex created, demolished in the wake of the discovery of that mysteriously elusive G-spot – G obviously stood for Good God Almighty damn it hell fuck…!

She had no idea what she was saying and she didn't care as low moans began to issue from him. Draco Malfoy mid-coitus was the most amazing thing she had ever seen, heard, experienced…

Her mind spiraled into insensibility once again as she came, tightening around him, crushing his hard, thick length. His arms buckled and he leaned on her, pressing into her fitful heat, his face against her neck. Her arms went around his shoulders of their own accord and the tension she found meant that he was close.

He redoubled his efforts a moment later, rising and grasping the back of her thighs. He hunted his pleasure, taking her hard and fast until at last his back straightened, his neck tilted back, and his lips parted to emit a quiet but unquestionably erotic groan. She felt him spill inside her, twitching, and they rode it out together with matching, jagged gasps.

Time congealed around them, cradling them, muting their shocked, sated bodies, and Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger lay in its obliging cocoon.

* * *

The last hour had been mostly wordless and the trend continued. But Draco's arm around her waist as they left his father's flat was an unashamed shout. This was an unexpected, if pleasant, turn of events.

"Where are we going?" she asked softly. She didn't want to destroy the fragile magic, but she had to know that they could speak like normal human beings.

"You were going to ask where my father was before I, ah..." he trailed off and then recovered. "He plays football on Sunday nights."

She stopped walking and he nearly tipped her over.

"Football?"

"Yes, you know, that muggle game with the ball you kick with your feet."

"I know what it is!" she said and smacked him lightly on the arm. "I just can't believe he knows how to play."

Draco shrugged. "Can't very well play quidditch, can he? He told me he used to play as a child. I've never seen him, but that's why we're going now."

Hermione resumed walking beside him, thoughtful. "What else does he do that I won't believe?"

"Well, before he started working he was awfully bored. He had to find ways to occupy himself. What do you call them? Hobbies."

"Hobbies," she repeated, shaking her head.

"Now he works a lot, but apparently he likes football enough to play with this old geezer league once or twice a week. There's the pitch, on the left." Draco pointed. They had only been walking ten minutes, and sure enough there was a sloppily lined field in a park up ahead. Even from here she could pick him out; no one else had a blonde ponytail.

Hermione thought she'd mastered her knee-jerk reactions to the strangeness of the past few weeks. Now they were back in full force as they crossed the street. No amount of bizarre experiences could have prepared her the sight of Lucius on the pitch. She had never seen his legs but there they were, on account of his blue shorts and the absence of shin pads. His hair was tied back in a looped ponytail; he probably had the most hair of any man on the field. They weren't geezers, exactly, but most of them were probably around forty. Like all of them Lucius was sweating, but unlike all of them he looked good when he did.

As she watched the ball came to him and he skillfully avoided a tackle. But he couldn't avoid the second one as he moved up the field; he went down, felled by an overzealous defender. It didn't faze him in the least. He held up his hands in protest, the way every footballer did when he was fouled, and got the call.

Hermione glanced around. To their left there was a gaggle of five or six middle-aged women. She stifled a laugh when she realized they were all staring at Lucius, preening on the sidelines and trying to get him to notice them. Lucius had noticed someone, but not any of the admirers; his eyes landed right on her and Draco. Making an excuse about his knee (it was bleeding, to be fair), he jogged off the field. The pick-up game paused as the other men scattered for a break.

Hermione and Draco both laughed as the women tripped over themselves to offer him a plaster. He politely refused, slicing his way through them en route to his offspring.

"Vultures," he muttered under his breath good-naturedly.

"Oh, you love it, father," Draco responded. Lucius flashed a smile that didn't deny it and then took a sip of water.

"Oi, Malloy!" one of the other men called.

"Malloy?" Hermione whispered.

"Alias," Lucius returned, completely serious. "Just call me Luc Malloy."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh; Draco was suppressing a grin. Some things never changed, chief among them Lucius Malfoy's intermittent paranoia. It was a good alias, though – unremarkable, and there were probably fifty Luc Malloys or some variation thereof in London alone.

"Who're these fine young folks?" the other man asked as he approached. "Your kids?"

"One of them, yes. This is my son, Draco," Lucius replied before his eyes raked perceptively over the both of them, letting them know in no uncertain terms that he was aware of exactly what they had been doing before coming to see him, "and his _girlfriend_, Hermione."


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione's first thought was of why he had chosen to use their real names; whatever anonymity he'd sought was blown with outlandish names like theirs. She would have thought he'd love making up the absolute worst names possible and then using them relentlessly. However, she had to admit that 'Hermione' was not an easy name to normalize. And the look that had flashed in his eyes – perhaps scheming had, for a moment, been replaced by blunt realization and his mouth worked on its own.

His teammate, the balding, slightly overweight man, laughed and shook their hands. "Good strong names, those! Mum into Shakespeare, Hermione?"

She nodded; her mother had confessed as much when she was nine years old.

"What's your excuse, Luc?"

"I was overly optimistic," Lucius said. "Draco means dragon. He has yet to grow wings…but he may have sprouted horns while I wasn't looking." Neither of them missed the edge in his voice. The other man laughed and walked away, shaking his head.

They were both a little wrong-footed by Lucius's veiled reaction. They had not walked onto the pitch arm in arm, had been careful to stay a few inches away from one another; still he knew and apparently he wasn't happy about it. Hermione was beginning to think she couldn't hide anything from him.

Her brain restarted suddenly. Why had she gone to his flat? To see him, not Draco. And what had she intended on doing once there? She had no bloody idea. If he had been there, would she have…would she have given herself to _him_ instead? Would she be laying in post-coital bliss with Lucius, rather than standing in muffled ambiguity with Draco? Had she only gone to seek sexual comfort, and taken it from whoever was there?

She didn't know. She didn't know the answer to any of it. Draco had said she would fall to Lucius's charm but he had done little to charm her, other than be his enigmatic self. And she had thought it was all a game to him, a fun exercise in sabotage and revenge, but this reaction was one of…hurt?

"Father…" Draco said. Lucius cut him off.

"Later. I've got a match to win." He dropped the water bottle and jogged away from them.

She exchanged a look with Draco. He looked troubled, but not half as troubled as she felt. If she was going to be a reckless, horny woman, spiraling in the confusion of her divorce, Lucius deserved her attention more. He had been there. He knew what it felt like. He had faced both Ginny and Harry like a weathered champion. And, she realized, he had done it for _her_. Not for any plot, not for any promise of revenge or redemption – for her. And what had Draco done? Draco had spouted a few words on a screen, appeared when she was most vulnerable, and while he had certainly performed well and made her feel incredible, that was all. There was no friendship between them, not yet. There was only physical attraction that she had acted on much too thoughtlessly.

Ron's words echoed in her head. _He knows you're vulnerable and is trying to take advantage of that._ Oh, she wanted to believe that it wasn't true, that Draco really had changed, but the seed of doubt was there now. But the way he looked at her…the way he had touched her…Hermione shook her head. She would sort this out later. For now Draco had the benefit of the doubt.

On the field Lucius had received the ball once more, but he did not move forward with it. He was still, poised, and then in a quick second he turned and launched a wicked kick at a bush near the sidelines. Several of the men on the field began to shout, annoyed at his giveaway, but then a flash and a pained yelp erupted from the bush. A man tumbled out of it. A man with a camera.

The field went quiet. Lucius moved quickly to stand over the paparazzo and Hermione could tell from the set of his back that he was angry. The football had shattered the flashbulb of the man's camera, but not before he got a picture of it coming at him.

"Publish that one, will you?" Lucius said coldly.

"Hey, Malloy, you famous or something?" one of the men yelled, only half-joking.

"In all the wrong circles," he responded, still glacial. "And for all the wrong reasons."

The cameraman scrambled to his feet and tried to stare Lucius down, but he might as well have been facing a great white shark that smelled blood. He wilted. Lucius made to take a step forward, a quick, sudden, threatening movement, and the intruder flinched and stumbled over his own feet. He fell back to the ground in an undignified heap.

Lucius turned and walked away. The men on the field were roaring with laughter, appreciating his thorough ownership of the paparazzo. Lucius did not share their mirth. The paparazzo, that same man with mud-brown hair, stood up and ran.

"Oi, Malloy, use that magic foot!" Someone tossed him another football. He caught it but shook his head.

"Come on!" several of them prompted.

"Fifty pounds if you hit him!" another shouted.

Lucius rolled his eyes. "I have a much higher asking price." But he turned and set the football on the ground, placing it on a level spot. He took four steps back, squinted at the retreating man, and kicked.

The ball soared high and it seemed to take a long time to drift downwards, but his aim was true. It arced in a graceful parabola and landed directly on the fleeing cameraman's head. The men on the field and most of the people on the sidelines burst into laughter as he went down as suddenly and violently as if he'd been shot.

"Oh, an aim to make Becks jealous!" his friendly teammate exclaimed as he patted Lucius on the back. "You're something, Malloy."

"Yes," he said, suddenly looking tired, "something else."

* * *

"You were serious when you said he liked me," Hermione said. They were some distance from the pitch now, waiting in the dusk as the men packed up.

"Of course I was. Couldn't you tell?" Draco asked.

"No. I…he…" she closed her eyes and sighed. "And you just disregarded it? Had no problem breezing in and plucking me away?"

It was Draco's turn to close his eyes and sigh. "You told me that I shouldn't yield you to another man. You see how women react to my father. He can have anyone he wants." Draco lifted her chin gently. "He can't have you."

Tears pricked her eyes. Draco was trying to please her, doing his best to acquiesce to her wishes in the new and terrifying arena of love, and without realizing it she had pitted him against his father. She hadn't meant to do it. She didn't think Lucius really wanted her. Yes, he'd kissed her and well at that, but she thought it was because she was a challenge, a new and interesting experiment. Oh, what had she done?

"You like him, too," Draco said softly. He sighed and brushed a tear from her cheek. "You like us both."

She nodded and the tears came unbidden, welling up from some place she couldn't identify.

"We're really blundering things up for you, aren't we."

She nodded again. He held her tentatively, offering a broad shoulder to rest her cheek upon. She knew without asking that they were looking in the same direction. They were both looking at Lucius. He was on the other side of the field, retrieving Oberon from the throng of his teammate's children that he'd entrusted him to.

"He deserves someone like you," Draco said. "Smart and pretty and vivacious."

Hermione sniffled. "So do you."

His chin brushed her hair as he nodded. "And there's the rub."

* * *

Lucius had come over to them, but only to ask them to take Oberon home. He was, he informed them, going to the pub with Tony and the team. He told them not to wait up and not to worry and really, he was fine with things, he was, and he'd see them later. Neither of them bought it.

They walked back toward his flat quietly, moving a bit slow because Oberon had been tired out by the children.

"Everything else aside, Hermione, I do have something to tell you," Draco said at last, somber.

"About Ron and Mykonos?"

He nodded. She sighed heavily. If she was going to deal with more emotional turmoil, it might as well all be heaped into one.

"What did you find out?"

"He did sleep with that woman, but he was set up. The woman was paid by Skeeter and given a Drowsy Draught to use on him. I spoke to her myself. She said she needed the money and didn't know Ron was married, or else she wouldn't have done it. She'll testify against Skeeter if we ask her to."

"I wish I was more surprised by that," Hermione remarked into the large silence.

"Aren't you happy?"

"No, because Ron wants to divorce me anyway."

Draco was stunned. "I…he does?"

She turned to him. "You didn't know?" Draco shook his head. "I signed the papers yesterday."

"Merlin," Draco breathed. "What is wrong with him? I…damn it!"

"What?"

"The only reason I was so forward today was because I was sure you'd reconcile with Weasley once I told you the news. I was sure I'd never have another chance."

"What kind of twisted logic is that?!" she demanded. "Withholding information and sleeping with me before you give me back to my husband?" _Ex-husband,_ her brain reminded her. Miraculously, she didn't feel like she wanted to rip his head of. Anger was sparked, yes, but she recognized with a casual resignation that when one chose to deal with snakes, one sometimes got bitten. At least this time it had been an agreeable bite.

"I don't know," he cringed. "The kind you use when you like someone so much it's painful and don't know what the hell to do about it."

"Oh, Draco," Hermione sighed. His honesty decimated all her anger. Again that problem with staying angry; evidently it was genetic. "Why didn't you just tell me? Why make it so that I was spending more time with your father?" she asked.

"I never expected to see you again, or that you'd have any feeling other than hatred for me," he confessed. "I needed time to sort what I was feeling." Draco frowned. "I guess that time came at my father's expense."

Hermione massaged her temples. These men! Both of them were so complicated and _not_ at the same time. She still didn't quite understand Draco's motivations but this was about all she could take for one day. What a fucking mess. "I guess I should owl Ron and tell him. He'll want to know. He won't come running back to me and even if he did I wouldn't take him, but he'll be angry and probably willing to testify." She looked down at her feet. "If he ever gets over the fact that I'm with a Malfoy."

"You wouldn't be if he got his head out of his arse," Draco muttered. "His loss."

"I'm beginning to regret ever going to that pub," Hermione said a minute later, as they turned onto Lucius's block. "You never would have had your miraculous epiphany and none of this would be happening."

Draco chuckled. "If I'm being honest, I may as well tell you. That epiphany happened a long time ago."

She looked up sharply. "When?"

"Seventh year. The end of the war." He shook his head. "You were like…Circe herself on that battlefield. After that I didn't see blood anymore, Hermione, I only saw magic."

They were at Lucius's door now and they stood, his words sinking in to her. He handed her Oberon's leash and the key to the door.

"I had better go. Something tells me Weasley won't want to testify for exactly the reason you mentioned, and the word of one Greek hooker won't put Skeeter away," he sighed. He leaned down and brushed a kiss on her forehead. "I want you to take your time and choose, Hermione. If it's my father you like best, then…" he struggled for words, "I won't be happy, and it will be difficult, but I'll deal with it. What's important is not how I feel, but how you feel. And if he makes you happy…I want you to be with him."

"Draco--"

"But don't forget about me while I'm gone. Don't…Merlin, I'm rubbish at this."

She smiled through another impending round of tears. She stood on her tiptoes and brushed a kiss to his forehead. Lucius had faced Harry and Ginny for her, it was true, but Draco had gone out of his way to try to rescue her marriage and salvage her reputation. Granted, he'd lost his self-control this afternoon, but up until that point his intentions had been honorable and she hadn't exactly resisted him. They were both worthy, different yet equally intriguing; Lucius, experienced, controlled, charismatic, shedding the last of an old dead skin like the pretty snake he was, and Draco, younger and less tainted, flexible, earnest, already leaving that old skin behind…

"Don't be a stranger, Draco," she whispered, and watched him apparate away.

* * *

She knew that staying at Lucius's flat wasn't a good idea. She'd already been seduced by one Malfoy today and in spite of how he had moderated, she still didn't know what he was like when he was angry or felt slighted. She wanted to explain herself, though. She wanted to make him understand. So she sat on his couch watching reruns of Doctor Who, Oberon curled up next to her with his warm head in her lap.

It was a long time before he came back. It was nearly one in the morning. She braced herself; Lucius out drinking for almost five hours couldn't end well. He seemed in control of himself, however, when he unlocked the door and shut it behind him. There wasn't a trace of a wobble in his step but he did smell like neighborhood pub.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"Lucius--"

Mercurial, he moved on to a new topic as he entered the living room. "Doctor Who?"

"I…yes," she answered, blinking, surprised by his mood swing and his instantaneous recognition of the show. He really did watch too much television.

"Eccleston or the other one?"

"Other one."

He wrinkled his nose. "Don't like him. He looks like Barty Crouch, Jr." He dropped his shoes on the floor and walked out of the room.

Hermione sat on the couch, bewildered. She couldn't figure out if he was angry, drunk, or just querulous. Maybe he was all three. She could attest that they occasionally coexisted. She blew out a sigh, ruffling Oberon's short fur, and the dog looked up at her, affronted. She scratched behind his ears and he forgave her. If only it was that easy with Lucius.

He emerged from the kitchen with a glass of water. He then collapsed on the opposite end of the couch, his posture surly, and nursed the water in silence. Hermione didn't know what to say. Perhaps it was best if she didn't say anything.

She watched him for a minute or two. His eyes were fixed firmly on the television but she could tell that he wasn't watching it. Wheels were turning inside his head. That scared her more than the silence. But if he'd allowed her to stay, he couldn't be _too _angry…right?

He was providing no answers and she turned back to the television with a sigh. A full fifteen minutes went by. She almost forgot that he was fuming beside her. Until, that is, he rocketed to his feet, placing the glass on the end table none too gently, and demanded,

"What in the name of Merlin did he say to you?"

She jumped, startling Oberon and causing the dog to make a hasty exit from her lap. Noticing that his master was prowling like a caged animal, the dog further removed himself by trotting out of the room.

"What did who say to me?" she asked, willing herself to be calm.

"Draco."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

Lucius sighed, visibly agitated. He paced a few more times and then abruptly sat back down.

"He came to me earlier," he said, rubbing his temples. "Said that he cared for you, wanted to pursue you, and requested that I back off."

Her mouth fell open.

"I agreed and I still do." He leaned back, his leg twitching madly. "He is more deserving, and I have done so much wrong by him." He frowned. More accurately, he pouted, but she would never dare to call it that out loud. He sank lower against the couch. "But _Merlin's flipping beard_, I didn't expect you to give in to him so quickly!"

Hermione suppressed a smile. She could read between the lines. He had been willing to surrender her, but expected to have a little more time to disengage himself, to sever his feelings…

"He must have some talent I lack," Lucius grumbled. "Or perhaps I am too patient."

"He says the same thing about you," she smiled. He waved a hand truculently and resumed his dignified sulking.

"Lucius…"

But he stood up, restless once again, and disappeared into the kitchen. There were soft sounds as he moved around.

"It's after midnight, yes? That makes it three years," he murmured to himself. He reemerged with a bottle and two glasses. "We can toast the anti-anniversary." He poured a small glass for her and then one for him and resumed his place on the couch, calmer but still taut with some undefined energy.

Hermione sniffed the liquor. It smelled tempting and terrible at the same time.

"What is this?"

"Isle of Skye."

She grimaced. She didn't like whiskey, but she'd drink it anyway. In exactly three years he'd get his wand back. Merlin only knew what he'd do then…she _hoped_ Merlin knew because she was fairly sure that Lucius didn't.

Hermione knocked it back, realizing that this was becoming a bad habit. She tried not to cough as it burned a cool swath down her esophagus. Lucius had no such problems. They sat in the dark, the television flickering with a show neither of them was watching, in uneasy peace. At last he pulled himself up with a great sigh. He put a hand over his stomach and made a face.

"Remind me," he declared, "never to drink anything that ends in 'meister' or 'schlager' ever again."

* * *

Against her better judgment, she stayed. Lately everything was against her better judgment…but for the first time since the whole bitter mess began she slept blissfully. Ensconced in the bed in Lucius's guestroom, she was dead to world for nine hours. Just before noon she drifted peacefully into consciousness and felt (if only for a few minutes) that everything was all right.

She didn't hear him. It was Monday; he ought to be belligerently counseling people on his ever-present phone. Perhaps he was eating lunch. Stretching, Hermione took a moment to tame her sleep-mussed hair and then emerged. A strong sense of déjà vu hit her in the hallway. It was not so long ago that she'd made this trip the first time.

He wasn't in the kitchen or the living room or his office. His phone sat forlornly next to the computer. Unable to resist, she checked the device – eight missed calls. _Seven of which are probably Franz_, she thought to herself, and smiled.

Perhaps he had gone out? Or perhaps he was feeling those aperitifs ending in 'meister' or 'schlager'. Curiosity was eating her up. She knew which room was his; he'd disappeared into it to get her clothing that first time. The door was open a crack, inviting her.

Oberon made the decision for her. A wet nose and grey snout suddenly wedged itself in the small opening and pushed the door open. The dog stood in the doorway, contemplating her, his docked tail wagging. Beyond him she could Lucius in bed, still and breathing evenly. Asleep.

She stepped inside the doorway and Oberon circled her legs anxiously. Poor thing probably needed to be walked. She could put him in the playroom but it looked like another nauseatingly beautiful day outside; since when did London have such good weather? She patted the dog on the head and resolved to walk him, but not until after she got a good look at his master.

It was strange to see him so vulnerable. Watching him sleep felt almost indecent, like she was eavesdropping on something terribly private. She was sure she'd never see his face so relaxed or so unguarded any other time. Like this, pale and tranquil, it was hard to believe he had ever been so inhuman. Indeed, that old Lucius was fading so quickly in her mind that soon she would not be able to recall him at all.

Even under her stare he didn't stir. She wondered if he had stayed up, staring at the ceiling, tortured by something she didn't understand. He was more complex than she had ever realized. More complex and more conflicted and more _everything_. Damn him.

With a sigh she left him to his rest. She would go see Harry and Ginny and bring Oberon with her; he was probably missing his sister and she hadn't yet heard if Harry's trial had resulted in a new contract. Most people had expected him to become an auror after the war, and he'd completed half the training, but his heart hadn't been in it. She couldn't blame him; he'd spent half his short life fighting and he deserved an escape more than anyone. He'd played quidditch in University (which greatly overshadowed his degree in Defensive Magic) and then been signed to the Caerphilly Catapults. In two seasons Harry had catapulted _them_ from the basement to second in the Welsh league. He was a free agent now and though Harry didn't really care about money or glory, there was more to be found elsewhere. With Oliver Wood's higher profile English team he'd gain more exposure and probably get a trial with the national side.

She charmed her teeth clean, pulled her hair into a presentable ponytail, and considered helping herself to another dose of Lucius's cologne. However, her clothing smelled fine; all of yesterday's sweat-work had been done without it…

She put a hand over her face and groaned.

* * *

"Hermione! We weren't expecting you," Ginny said as she opened the door. The redhead's cheeks were flushed and her hair a bit messy; Hermione wondered if she'd interrupted something. If she had it probably meant good news.

"Hey, Hermione!" Harry called cheerfully from deeper in the house. As Ginny ushered her in, she could see that Harry was similarly ruddy and had put two different socks on. He was wearing a Puddlemere United t-shirt, confirming her suspicions. "We were just about to have lunch, will you join us?"

Hermione smiled. Lunch, right – if lunch consisted of one another. "If you'll have me," she answered mildly.

"Of course!" the two of them chorused. Then they looked at each other quickly, blushed, and then looked away. Hermione chuckled and busied herself with unhooking Oberon's leash. At that moment, Titania burst into the room with an excited bark.

"Where are you two getting these dogs?" Harry asked, shaking his head as the dogs sniffed one another and began to rough house.

"They're Malfoy's," Hermione answered. "Didn't Ginny tell you?"

"No," he said pointedly, giving his girlfriend a sideways glance. "Malfoy just let you borrow his dog?"

"As a matter of fact, he did," she responded. Harry shrugged.

"I never really liked dogs, not after my Aunt Marge's bulldog Ripper," he frowned. "But these two are quite agreeable. We might have to get one of our own."

"Do you mean that?" Ginny asked, almost sashaying around the table to fall into his arms.

"Of course," he said, and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips.

Hermione resisted the urge to gag. She was very happy for Harry and Ginny, really she was. It was just this divorce thing; it made her irrationally hate everyone who could find happiness where hers had failed. She had become…cynical. She would have to get over it eventually.

Having to choose between two attractive men wasn't helping. It was like having to choose between vanilla and chocolate; both had their strong points, their differences, and were irresistible in their own way. She sighed as her mind schizophrenically jumped to the waiter in the café before all of this had started. It was true that there were many people out there who would wish to have her problems…

Those people were insane.

* * *

Harry made a ridiculously good Caesar salad, as it turned out. Paired with the famous Weasley summer tea (it had a dash of peach schnapps in it) it felt like the perfect July afternoon. She sat in Harry and Ginny's small kitchen, basking in their presence and the light breeze that drifted through the windows. The Wizard Wireless was on loud enough to make out the reports but low enough to ignore. The dogs had tired themselves playing and lay in a heap of grey fur by the couch.

"And now the topic turns to something we've all been hearing about, something rather sensational. I don't think there's a person in existence who hasn't seen the recent pictures and articles about Lucius Malfoy…"

"They're obsessed with him," Harry sighed. "I'll turn it off."

"No," Hermione said, "I haven't been keeping up with things, so let's hear it. They're sure to mention me."

"That isn't necessarily a good thing," Harry frowned, but reluctantly raised the volume.

"So, on this, the third anniversary of Malfoy's deeply controversial divorce, we're going to speak of what these new appearances mean. Mainly, do we believe that he's actually changed?"

"Hermione?" Ginny said, noticing the horrified expression that had crept across her face.

"Oh," she said softly. Last night's toast had not been about recovering his wand. It had been about the divorce. Three years divorced…three years alone. _That _was why her relations with Draco bothered him so much – he liked her and she had slept with his son on the anniversary of his divorce! It didn't matter that he'd given his blessing; it still smarted. Heaven help her. _That_ was why he had been so moody. As difficult as it was to believe, _pain_ had kept him awake so late that he was still asleep at noon. _The anti-anniversary…_

Harry and Ginny were looking at her expectantly and with a fair amount of concern.

"I'll tell you later," she sighed. "After the rest of the report."

They nodded and listened intently.

"Malfoy more or less disappeared after the divorce was finalized. Now, if you recall a lot of horrific accusations were leveled at him during that process. Among these accusations were rape and child abuse, a lot of really terrible things. He was cleared of all these, but it was never acknowledged that the allegations were lies. The general public believes this actually happened. One has to wonder if Rita Skeeter is creating more lies now that Malfoy has re-emerged. What do you think, Icarus?"

A second voice chimed in.

"Well, Skeeter is now blaming Malfoy for the recent divorce of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. Malfoy and Granger have appeared in some interesting photographs lately, so maybe there was an affair going on, but Skeeter disregards the fact that Weasley did cheat on Granger. She was so kind as to bring that to the world's attention first and is now completely ignoring it. I think that perhaps Miss Skeeter has something against both Malfoy and Granger; she goes out of her way to make them look bad."

"An interesting point. Readers and listeners seem to agree; though overall subscriptions to Witch Weekly have gone up in this media maelstrom, Skeeter's popularity has plummeted in the last week. She's down nearly thirty percentage points."

"It's working," Ginny grinned.

"Serves her right," Hermione muttered under her breath.

"It should be pointed out that Malfoy has served six years of a nine year sentence without a single violation of the terms of his punishment," the radio host went on. "He hasn't done any magic, hasn't attempted to procure a wand, and with these recent pictures just published today, it is being suggested that he is living harmoniously as a muggle in London."

"Yes, today's pictures show him playing muggle football. I can barely believe it, but it's him. I think there's definite hope here. If he's having a relationship with Hermione Granger, who as many of you know, is muggleborn, his ideals about purity of wizarding blood may have changed."

"Let's hope so, Icarus. What do you listeners think? We're going to take a quick break, during which time we invite you to owl or send in your opinion via the wireless. We'll read some of your responses when we get back. In the meantime, please enjoy these messages from Florean Fortescue's new expanded Ice Cream Shop and Weasley Wizard Wheezes…"

"It's going exactly as you planned," Ginny commented. "And I for one am glad."

"I never knew all that stuff about Malfoy was false," Harry said thoughtfully. "Up until recently you could've told me anything about him and I'd probably believe it."

"That makes two of us," Hermione sighed, standing. "Thank you for lunch…but I've got to go."

* * *

She had thought that perhaps she could bring Titania back, but the dog didn't want to leave. She stayed warily by Ginny, plying Hermione with puppy-dog eyes. Perhaps Titania knew best when it was time to go; Hermione left her there. Harry and Ginny were taking excellent care of her and there was no use trying to change the situation if all involved were happy.

Mercifully she remembered the key Draco gave her last night. As she let herself in to Lucius's flat, she wondered if he'd be up and about now. However, it looked exactly as it had when she left. It was nearly three o'clock. Was he _still_ in bed?

She checked his phone and his computer. Thirteen missed calls now, and one message box. Draco. He had typed 'I'm sorry' about fifteen times. Evidently he had realized what day it was, too, and how much his seduction of her had wounded his father. Not because he was in love with her; he wasn't. It was the timing.

She put Oberon in the playroom and this time walked unhesitatingly into his room. Sure enough, he was still coiled beneath the covers. A dull pain throbbed in her chest; this wasn't about exhaustion, it was about depression. For once the façade was down. And why not? If he couldn't be openly miserable today, when could he?

She took off her shoes. Misery loved company, didn't it? Without much thought, she climbed into the bed beside him and curled against his back. He wasn't wearing a shirt and his skin was quite warm. She was hit by his scent – pure man. Oh, she had been a thousand percent right about him not needing cologne. He didn't move but there was enough tension in his body that she knew he was awake.

"I'm sorry," she murmured against his hair. Her mother had done the exact same thing for her when she'd come after Ron's last visit. She had crawled into bed, held her fractured daughter, smoothing her hair gently behind her ear, and simply been there. Sometimes everyone needed a physical rock, an anchor…

The tension leached out of him. His shoulders relaxed and dropped. He shifted slightly but didn't try to escape. She lay against him, matching her breath to his, feeling the steady staccato of his heart, for an indeterminate time. She was almost lulled into sleep when he quietly spoke.

"What time is it?"

"I don't know. After 3."

"And how many times has Franz called?"

She smiled into the silk of his pale tresses. "Thirteen, at last check."

"Freak," he muttered. "I don't know what he's worried about, muggle tax season is still months away." His skin shifted against her as he sighed. "I have a six o'clock dinner appointment with the Bulstrodes. I have to finish covering up two years of blatant tax evasion."

"Should you be doing that?"

"They're under blood oath to pay what they owe by August 1. I'm just keeping them out of court."

"And if they don't pay?"

"They will." His voice was coolly certain and held an undertone that reminded her who she was dealing with. She wondered what conditions had been placed on that blood oath; one didn't need a wand for that. Blood was magical enough…

He moved suddenly. She didn't have time even for a thought. He pressed her onto her back and draped his body over hers, chest to chest, hip to hip. For the second time in just over 24 hours, a Malfoy was on top of her, inflamed with something even he couldn't describe. And for the second time, her body was reacting. In the languid pressure of his body, the dangerous blue of his eyes, and the dominance he exuded, she was feeling the full and formidable brunt of Lucius Malfoy's sexuality. It became increasingly difficult to breathe when his tongue flickered over pulse.

"You are playing a dangerous game, little witch," he whispered, "crawling into my bed on a day like this."


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: You are going to love AND hate me for this chapter. Enjoy!!

* * *

She didn't move. She was the one who was tense now, unbearably so, incredulous at how much sensation his subtle movements could create. He bowed his head, his lips brushing her collarbone, his hair tickling her jaw. Damn these men and their lips. No, their lips on their own were not that remarkable – it was just that they _knew_ how to use them. They were a weapon like everything else…

He was still, his only movement the expansion of his chest as he breathed. Then he tilted his head slightly and just grazed his lips against the side of her neck. She shivered, alight with uncertainty. Her body wanted him, there was no question about that, but her mind was not so easily sold. This was a can of worms she wasn't sure she could open.

He planted a gentle kiss on her chin. It was so strange; for all his dominance, he treated her like glass. Not that she thought for even a moment that he wouldn't rough her up if the occasion called for it. That was part of his appeal – his volatility.

He shifted forward, his hips pressing into her. Whether it was calculated or not, it sent a shot of debilitating yearning through her. Oh, these two…with Draco it had been _need_. With Lucius it was…want? She wasn't sure which was worse.

Her breath caught as he leaned down, his eyes closed, his hair curtaining them in a pale golden world. He stopped just short of her lips. He was so close that she could feel his presence against the sensitive skin. He breathed, a warm current of air tickling her, and opened his eyes.

She could see his pupils adjust to the light, constricting, dilating, constricting. She saw the fight there. It was want for him, too, want of something he had agreed to surrender. Want of comfort, atonement, pleasure, pain…he wanted many things. And…

If he kept going, she wasn't going to deny him. If he kissed her she would give in. Even that brief kiss outside her apartment had promised something that many women would behave foolishly to experience. But she wasn't going to make the move. No, she wouldn't do it…

He stayed where he was, that fraction of an inch from her lips. The tension was excruciating, building in her loins until she felt like she might explode. She didn't think he was quite as hot and bothered. But if he didn't feel it, he wouldn't be on top of her. He had been lying when he said he didn't desire her. Then again, she should have known. It was only her own stubborn optimism that kept her from acknowledging the beautiful liar that he was.

At last he drew his breath in through his teeth. "Mmm," he said, low and lusty, "the things I would have done to you…"

And then he slid away. It felt like having a silk sheet drawn off of her. He had exerted some prodigious control that she wouldn't have had, if she was in his position. It mattered little; he hadn't even kissed her, but she felt like jelly on the bed, felt like she had just had tumultuous sex with him anyway. Except for the bunched prayer for release that huddled somewhere in her groin; that threw it all off, because she knew she wouldn't walk away from sex with him unsatisfied. _If_ she could walk after such a thing…

He had gone into the hallway to get a towel and now he reentered the room. He pulled on a robe and shucked his bottoms, stepping out of them in a motion so fluid that she wondered if he practiced it. It gave the illusion of a model on a runway, oblivious to the fact that his or her clothing was falling off.

"If I were you," he said softly, looking back over his shoulder in the doorway to the adjoining bathroom, "I would go."

The door closed, the water ran, and Hermione felt at once like she had been rescued from something perilous and like she would forever regret his damnable control - for she clearly had none of that.

* * *

No, she had none of it, for a few minutes later she stormed the bathroom like a soldier storming an enemy fortress. She was beginning to doubt her sanity. Did people do this? Obviously they did, but she had never in her life been so reckless…or so horny. What was wrong with her?

She would consider that later. No matter what she did she would regret it; she may as well _enjoy_ that regret. Besides, Draco had told her to choose, to give them both a chance, and that meant…yes, enjoying their talents in all arenas. This one, though – if she didn't know for a fact that he had no wand, she would suspect him of bewitching her.

She turned her attention to him, outlined in steam. If he was surprised he didn't show it. He simply went on with his routine, ignoring her, though she could feel his eyes on her as she stripped. It was good to feel, for once, that she was on the offensive.

She moved toward the shower, taking a moment to marvel in what rich people could afford. The glass-fronted shower could probably hold ten people if they were crushed in like sardines, and half that comfortably. There were two showerheads, though as far as she knew he hadn't been sharing his ablutions with anyone. Until now.

Oh, she would never know what made a soaking wet man so attractive; it seemed like a law of nature. And what a body he hid beneath that expensive clothing! Though she supposed he had to be in some kind of shape to play football, even with 'geezers'. For all she knew he was a gym rat; it wasn't any more shocking than him talking on a cell phone and watching television more than she did.

All speculation about his athletic pursuit aside, he was literally a wet dream. His hair fell in a saturated sheet made a darker shade of pale by the water. Strands stuck to his neck and shoulders; she longed to smooth them out, return them to the rest of their compatriots, or maybe just touch the lush wet tangles. He really did have great hair, bugger him for that – although on the off chance that she reproduced with either Malfoy, at least there would be a good probability of the children inheriting _their_ hair instead of hers. Not that she wanted to reproduce. With either of them. No. Not now. Not ever? This was a scary train of thought; abruptly she switched tracks.

His body was solid, well-built, surprisingly fit. He wouldn't be winning any bodybuilding contests anytime soon, yet he was shaped in such a way that where her eyes could not find muscle, she knew her fingers would. Again that obsession with touching; she felt like a child left alone with a freshly made cake. Just as her eyes were about to drift lower, down to the places that really mattered, he spoke up.

"This is not a peep show," he said, a bit reproachfully.

"As if you're not looking at me," she retorted.

He shrugged and turned to face the spray, giving her a full and unobstructed view of his back. He had a back to die for, smooth, sinewy, perfect, and that rear end! It should be illegal for a man his age to have an ass like that. It was round and taut and – no, she couldn't stand there and apply adjectives or he'd be done with his shower by the time she got in.

Hermione took a deep breath and took hold of the shower door. Here went nothing. She stepped in, assaulted by steam and the smell of cleansing products. He cast one glance over his shoulder as she started up the second showerhead. He was doing an awfully good job of pretending that this didn't excite him, but she was fairly sure that he had his back to her for a reason. She was also fairly sure that if she pretended the same thing for a while, it would drive him to the point of ambush.

So she languished beneath the hot spray, closing her eyes and sighing. A well-calculated sigh could do wonders. A few minutes later when she opened her eyes, nothing had changed. His back was still to her, his broad shoulders working as he soaped himself up. Good God. He could make millions if he just marketed videos of himself to women with low sex drives. Forget pills and creams and acupuncture. One good look at wet, naked Lucius Malfoy would do the trick. _He_ would open up their chakras, all right…

Thankfully the shampoo was on the tiled seating area in the middle. She wouldn't have to reach around him. Unfortunately, she couldn't keep looking while washing her hair; the last thing she needed was to drip shampoo in her eye and spend the rest of the day looking like she had conjunctivitis. She closed her eyes and focused on the feel of her fingers along her scalp. Away went the impurities of yesterday…agreeable as they were…

When she finished, he was facing her and rinsing off his soap. She watched the fine lather as it slid down his side, his hip, a muscular thigh, his knee (still with a little red slash across it, the remnants of that rough tackle at football), the pale, almost invisible hair on his calf, to dissipate between his toes and swirl into the drain. Then her gaze was drawn back up to what she had missed before.

How on earth did he possess so much control? His body had not yet reacted to her nudity or her proximity – but his eyes were closed. Men were notoriously visual creatures. He could weather his imagination better than what was really in front of him and that was where they differed; it was _always_ her imagination that got her, sent her into overdrive, reeling at the possibilities, the maybes, the what-ifs…

It would be a good what-if. Even in his resting state, she could tell that it would be a very good what-if. But she wasn't going to push it. She was going to win this battle of wills. _He _would be the one to instigate. His restraint would only last so long. He would not leave her standing there in the shower. He would not choose the Bulstrodes and their tax evasion over her. Oh, what had she become, trying to manipulate a man who was doing his best _not_ to break a promise to someone they both cared about?

She pushed that thought out of her mind, knowing very well that Lucius Malfoy could read her like a book and would only be manipulated if he wanted to. And however reprehensible she thought this was, it was far from the worst thing she had ever done. The universe had played a lot of cruel tricks on her, given her large helpings of fear, pain, and heartache, and now she was striking back. Most people behaved stupidly in pursuit of pleasure at a much younger age, but she had skipped that altogether. It was time to regress.

She rinsed the conditioner from her hair, feeling it slide slickly down her body, taming the tangles in her unruly curls. She might have to switch to whatever he used, because she could run her fingers through the wet ringlets without much resistance and that happened about as frequently as her trying to seduce a man twice her age. A tiny smile curved her lips. He was done, clean, but he still stood across from her basking in the water. And his eyes were open now.

The soap was in his hand. There was no other bar or container and he knew it. He was fighting back, however subtly. Her smile grew wider. She pointed at him and said,

"Accio soap."

Faint surprise registered on his face as the soap slipped out of his hand. He didn't expect her to be able to do wandless magic. Then again she was pretty sure he didn't expect her to be trying her damnedest to get him to use his considerable…talents on her, either.

"Cheater," he said softly.

"You can try to take it back," she smirked as she started to lather herself up. Her nipples hardened under his intense gaze. A moment later he moved as suddenly as he had before, back on the bed, crossing the shower in three steps and wrapping strong arms around her from behind. He had pinned her arms down and his entire body was pressed against her back, every delicious inch. Every delicious inch of _everything_. She tried valiantly to ignore the burning persistence of his erection as it stirred against the small of her back. It was like trying to ignore Mount Kilimanjaro when it reared up, snow-capped, out of the brown African savannah. Merlin, was she comparing his manhood to a mountain? He didn't have anything she couldn't handle, though the handling would be quite agreeable.

"By force?" he murmured in her ear, bringing her back. "That's no fun." His teeth closed around her earlobe for the barest of seconds. "No, by the time I'm done with you, you'll be begging me to take it back."

It was only by virtue of the soap and their wet skin that she could twist around in his grasp. She cast games to the wayside as she dropped the soap, ratcheted up on her tiptoes, and kissed him. She felt him smile against her lips – Lucius 1, Hermione 1, a tie – before he, too, gave up the game.

His kiss bore none of the gentle politeness of that first one outside her apartment. He was pressing his agenda now, his tongue jousting with hers, and he allowed the arousal he had contained so tightly escape. His hands roamed, slippery with soap, nails raising red tracks that made her gasp against his lips. He could walk that fine line between pleasure and pain and she knew he would. Burying her in a hard, almost punishing kiss, he grasped her buttocks and pressed her against him. His proud length was positively throbbing, trapped between their wet, urgent bodies.

For all his talk she knew now how this would play out; he was going to bend her over and fuck her silly. Outlasting one another's scheming had been more than enough foreplay. And for heaven's sake, he'd only had his hand for company for the last three years as he wouldn't see the point in having relations with a muggle; he deserved a hard, turbulent, uncomplicated rendezvous.

He pressed a muscled thigh between her legs and backed her towards the wall. Surely he wasn't strong enough for this, he'd hurt his back if – no, no, he was _more _than strong enough. His hands shifted on her rear, lower, where it met the back of her thighs, and up she went in one flex of his arms. She battled back visions of cracking her skull on the marble tiles, tightly wrapping her arms around his neck. He was inside her a second later.

She couldn't help the low moan that bubbled out of her. She was ready for him, had been for half an hour, but finally she was getting what she wanted and it felt too damn good. He made a few minor adjustments as his mouth sucked a hard bruise onto her neck, a mark she knew she'd have to cover with makeup. After shifting her weight slightly and ensuring that they were balanced, he withdrew from her and pressed back in with a sigh.

The logistics were taken care of. He found a hard rhythm, burying himself deeply inside her with a deliberate roughness that made her head spin. The angle was divine, stroking her slick walls just so, and the rub of the warm, moist skin of his chest against her nipples was destroying her. Oh, for all its impracticalities, sex standing up was not to be dismissed…

He didn't make sounds, not like Draco had, but the hitching of his breath and his face told the story. His face…he wore an expression that could have been pleasure or pain or both, and only the person privileged enough to see that expression would know which it was. He was entirely unguarded, entirely revealed, knowing it and loathing it and loving it. Catching her staring, his fingers bit sharply into her buttocks and he rent her with a vicious thrust. The slap of wet skin on skin efficiently erased her ability to hold onto coherent thought. He was going to leave her bruised and sore and entirely happy about it.

"Ah fuck!" The words tore out of her. "Fuck…Lucius!"

His body gave a tremulous shudder at his name and he spasmed inside her. His breath became ragged. He crushed her against the wall, impaled upon his length, his will narrowed only to this. Somehow her coarse entreaty had unleashed an almost vengeful arousal in him. She saw in his eyes, inhuman in their determination, that he was going to _make_ her come. He was going to force her into a quaking, screaming orgasm, draw each exquisite convulsion of pleasure out of her to feed upon, punish her with her own desire.

She could feel it, that spiteful release building in her core. He beat her toward it with each carnal lunge. She dug her long nails into his shoulders, uncaring of the welts they would raise, and at least he groaned. He would like that, wouldn't he. At the risk of serious bodily injury she extracted one arm from the support of his shoulders and snuck it between their bodies. Finding the raised protrusion of his nipple, she pinched. He drew a sharp breath between his teeth, his eyes sparking, before he wrenched her hand away and pinned it to the wall.

Things were precarious now, but it wouldn't take much longer. Pinned, his mouth plundering hers while he gave her a thorough fucking, she was flying quickly toward a thunderous emancipation. She could hear her own gasps and moans echoing through the steam-filled room along with the beat of his breath and their coupling.

It started subtly, a slight tightening of her entire being, and then engulfed her like an ecstatic charley-horse. Peals of fiery pleasure shot through her, from her toes suspended in the moist air all the way to the roots of her teeth. She screamed her pleasure, her thighs clamping around him tightly enough to make him wince and grit his teeth. Dimly, she knew she was squeezing the hell out of him, wringing his manhood with the contractions of her insides, and that was why he was still, his eyes rolled back under pale eyelashes, his breath uneven – he was trying to prevent himself from going with her.

He succeeded, though the effort took a lot out of him. He braced his arms beneath her backside and pulled her away from the wall. In a few unsteady steps he made it to the seat. With a flick of his arm the shampoo and conditioner bottles fell, clattering on the ground, and she found herself in his lap, still joined with him.

He was leaning back on his palms, his face lifted to her, his eyes half open as he regained his breath. She couldn't control the urge to kiss his slack, rosy lips. It wasn't like before; that tension was broken. She moved, repositioning herself, and began a gentle rock against him. She was in control now.

She surrendered his lips and moved to the top of his shoulder, burning that same bruising love-mark into his milky flesh. He liked it, that little edge of pain, and she liked giving it to him. She did, three more times. He looked like he'd been hit with paintballs; by the time she was finished she could feel the impatience in his bunched thighs. Her slow pace was killing him. He wanted to thrust home but he had given her the power to determine the tempo. He liked the small torture of that, too.

She made a snap decision. Dismounting his lap, she slid to her knees between his thighs. She didn't miss the clouding of his eyes, or the plaintive pulse of his member. She kept her eyes on him, gripping his length and bringing it to her lips. A small tremor went through him as she parted her lips and took him into her mouth.

He tasted good, clean, slightly salty, hot and silken against her lips and tongue. She let her mouth explore the shape of him. A muffled expletive made it past his lips, something that sounded suspiciously like 'motherfucker'. Then his hand came forward and wrapped in her wet curls. A gentle pressure asked her…begged her…

She gave him what he wanted. And he wanted it a lot; she tasted the salty-sweet precursor to what would come as she sucked him. It was delectable to feel the pulse of his desire as she drew her lips along it. He was alive beneath her ministrations, unable to keep still, gasps and soft, almost inaudible moans filling her ears.

He was becoming very tense and his leg gave a substantial jerk when she took more of him in, relaxing her throat and tamping down on her gag reflex. She breathed his smell as she moved, savored the soft tickle of the blonde hair that surrounded his sex, and enjoyed his sounds. She knew she was good at this. She'd been told as much by the few people ever fortunate enough to receive her attention. He was the third, throbbing, his chest heaving, that expression of exquisiteness back on his face.

A moment later he stopped breathing altogether. She felt his muscles clench. He tugged her hair, telling her what was about to happen, trying to spare her, but she stayed where she was. He came with a short cry, encompassed in her warm mouth, his hand tangled tightly in her curls as his hips pressed up toward her. And she tasted him, his desire, his virility, his power, his vulnerability…

* * *

She trembled against the shower wall a second time. Only it was her own shower in her own flat and it was her own hand that had driven her over the edge. Fucking hell. She had sat on his bed, bewildered, battling herself for nearly fifteen minutes. Paralysis didn't even begin to describe it. She had not stormed his bathroom, hadn't played mind games with him in the shower – she had been trapped in fight or flight and flight won when the hum of the water ended. Damn her. Damn her and her hesitation, her morals, her uncertainty, her rationality, her loyalty – whatever had kept her from throwing him down and fucking him. Damn. It.

She leaned against the cool tile, recovering. She was sure that he was not one of those men who were better in fantasy than reality. But now…now she'd never know, because he wouldn't give in to her again. He had faced his weakness, conquered it, and capitulated to his son's requests. Lucius Malfoy would not make another sexual advance on her…though the attraction would always be there, just below the surface, and he might give in if she made an advance on him. But how could she, now?

Disgusted, Hermione threw her loofah to the floor and shut off the water. She needed to get away from men for a while.


	8. Chapter 8

That was exactly what she did. She called her mum, explained her need to get away, and found herself with the aforementioned mum drinking a cold pilsner on a boat sailing the River Vlatava. She had never been to Prague and regretted it immensely. On her right she could see a castle jutting into the sky, prominent above houses and other buildings that climbed a long, low hill. On the left she could see a cluster of gothic spires and the long promenade of Charles Bridge. It was noon and she was on her second beer. Her mother was already giggling, tipsy, regaling a German man that had made the mistake of sitting near them with stories of root canals and the relative merits of porcelain veneers. Why had she not come here before?

Right, because Ron didn't like to travel. His wanderlust was nearly nonexistent and displayed itself in bursts every five years or so. The only place she had ever gone with him was Spain. That trip had been wonderful, romantic, everything she could have asked for, but she realized now that it was an aberration. Everything about her relationship with Ron had been a blip in his life, a peculiarity of behavior for six years. He was back to his old self now, back to the friend who cared just a tad too much. As painful as it had been, thank goodness she had gotten away. Remaining any longer would have killed both of them.

Before leaving she had gone to see Ron. He had reacted strongly when she told him about what Skeeter had done. She had told him everything else, too – that the relationship with Lucius was a sham (sort of), that Draco was out gathering evidence against Skeeter, that in the end they would, hopefully, have their revenge. She had conveniently left out that she had passionate sex with Draco and that she seriously thought about doing the same with Lucius. She was _still_ regretting that. Even now, on this ridiculous boat with a microcosm of the world in the tourists around her, she wished she had been gutsy enough to force him to make good on his flirtation.

Ron had solemnly agreed to testify against Skeeter if they managed to gather enough evidence. That might change if and when she actually fell for either of the Malfoys. Ron had proven to be a strong man, one who could withstand much, but her ending up with a Malfoy was a bruise to his ego that might never be healed. She hated to destroy one relationship to promote another, but Ron had done enough destroying on his own.

"Hermione." Her mother jabbed her in the ribs.

"Ow!" she protested. "What?"

"That nice Icelandic boy is looking at you."

In spite of herself she looked, careful to make it seem like she wasn't glancing at anyone in particular. Her mother was trying to be helpful, encouraging a fling to assist her in getting over Ron. She had been doing it from the moment they got on the plane. She had to admit he was cute; medium height, shaggy black hair cut in a fashionable shape, and – oh. Those eyes, blue as an iceberg, not unlike…

No. She was not going to screw some cute Icelandic boy in her tour group because he had eyes like Lucius. She did not _need_ to screw someone that reminded her of him to push him out of her mind. That was something men did in romance novels when they were in denial about loving someone or when they wanted what they couldn't have. She did not fit any of those criteria.

"Hermione?"

"Mum," she said, turning to the woman that had birthed her, "can I tell you something if you promise you won't judge me?"

* * *

So there they were, sitting beneath a yellow awning sipping pilsners in the shadow of the Astronomical Clock.

"All right," Lisa Granger said, drumming her fingers on the table. "What is it I'm not supposed to judge you for?"

Hermione took a gulp of the beer for strength and then set the large mug down. She had been drinking entirely too much lately. If things continued as they were, she couldn't foresee that trend diminishing.

"Since I separated from Ron…I've…been seeing someone."

"Hermione, that's wonderful! Why would I judge you for that?"

"Because I've been seeing two someones."

Her mother took it in stride, nodding. "There's no ring on your finger anymore. You're allowed."

Hermione dug herself deeper. If she couldn't talk to her mother about this, she couldn't talk to anyone. "Those two someones…are…father and son."

That did the trick. Lisa Granger's brown eyes went wide. She took a hasty sip of her own beer, processing what her daughter told her and trying not to overreact.

"How old are they?" she managed.

"Twenty-five and…" Hermione grimaced. This was going to sound bad. "Fifty-one."

"Do they _know_ about one another?" her mother demanded, scandalized. Things were snowballing now. Soon she was going to have to remind her mum that she had promised not to judge.

"Yes, they know."

"And they're…they don't…fifty-one!" Lisa sputtered.

"Believe me, mum, he doesn't look it or act it."

"That doesn't change the fact that he's old enough to be _your_ father!"

Hermione shrunk in her chair. Her mother was becoming loud. People who understood English were starting to stare. She made a shushing motion with her hand. Mercifully her mother understood and reigned in some semblance of composure.

"All right," Lisa Granger breathed. "I'm not judging. I'm trying not to judge."

"Mum…"

"There's more?"

Hermione nodded apologetically. Her mum took three deep breaths and appeared to steel herself.

"All right. Let's hear it."

"I slept with one of them."

It was a good thing that Lisa was not drinking her beer. If she had been, she would have spit it out. "Is that a good idea?" she said weakly. "You're just out of a divorce, you're vulnerable, not thinking straight. I – Jesus Mary and Joseph, which one?!"

"The son."

"The twenty-five year old."

"Yes."

Her mother sighed with relief, appearing to have reconciled herself with the idea of her daughter having sex. "All right. Was he good, at least?"

"Yes." Hermione crossed her legs, beating back the sensual memories.

"So…you're going to pick him, then?"

"I wish it was that simple," she sighed. "That's the problem, Mum. I like them both. I…almost slept with the father the other day. The day I called you and told you I needed to get away. And you know what's worse? I really wish I had. I can't stop thinking about him."

"Hermione, are you depressed? Not sleeping? On some kind of drug?"

She laughed out loud. "No, Mum."

"You don't do things like this. You're an intellectual. You don't care about sex."

"Normally, you're right."

Lisa shook her head. "This can't end well. Never mind that it is strange to be with two men who are related in that way. Brothers I can understand, but father and son? Eventually they'll become jealous of one another. You'll destroy their family."

"I know."

"They'll hate one another and probably hate you."

"I know."

"People will talk about you."

"I know."

"You know all this."

"Yes."

Her mother sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. The hour chimed, temporarily distracting them; they both looked up at the clock tower, watching marionettes of the twelve Apostles cycle. It was an amazing piece of ingenuity, really, a fully automated showpiece that was well over five hundred years old. The square stopped and a thousand camera flashes went off. After the minute passed, the crowd resumed its business and Hermione's reprieve was over.

"Hermione, I say this as your friend and not your mother. You are a great woman, and you deserve to have the attention of whatever man you desire. If that man is twice your age, so be it. If that man is more than one man, so be it. You're a modern woman and that's what modern women do, I guess. But no matter how much you like these two, no matter how much you hope they can continue not to be jealous of one another, it won't happen. Three people will get hurt and you'll end up alone and carrying a bad reputation."

Hermione swallowed. "Noted." She drew patterns in the condensation on her mug. "What do you say as a mother, then?"

"Dump them both," her mother responded immediately, "or keep the twenty-five year old."

"The father is _rich_, Mum. Rich and attractive and has an arse like Adonis." She grinned to show she was kidding – but not entirely.

"Enough, Hermione," Lisa Granger said, reaching her limit. "If you don't stop, I'll start talking about your father's bodily gifts."

"Oh, God, that won't be necessary!" she said a little too quickly.

They both dissolved into giggles, and once again the members of their tour group stared at them. In the four days they had been there, they had easily become the oddest pair in the mix. But that Icelandic boy kept staring – and Hermione kept ignoring him, trying her best to forget any men with pale blue eyes.

* * *

Harry did his best to huddle under the umbrella. Hermione really ought to open her fireplace to the floo network again, but he supposed she had been too busy and too upset to get around to it. On a nice day the walk from the apparition point wasn't bad, but today was not nice. It was cool and gloomy and pouring rain, coupled with wind that blew the fat drops horizontally. His cloak was going to be soaked. The umbrella kept inverting in the wind.

He was bringing her a Puddlemere United jersey and tickets to his first match. He had signed with the team yesterday. For once gossip about him ran rampant, temporarily replacing the headlines his other best friends had been making. He didn't miss the overexposure.

There was her flat, thank goodness. The usual cadre of owls was absent; he'd finally gotten around to making it Unplottable. The owls couldn't find her, nor could the reporters. With a slight shiver he edged beneath the overhang that shielded her door. He folded the umbrella and lifted his hand to knock.

Nothing.

"Hermione?" he called out. "It's Harry, I've got something for you."

Still nothing. Was she out of town? At Malfoy's? She had been spending too much time there…

At that moment a flare of terror engulfed him as a strong hand clamped onto his shoulder. He whirled, his wand coming to his hand automatically – and he actually poked Draco Malfoy in the eye.

"Ow! Son of a….ohhhhh," Malfoy moaned, one hand over his eye and the other over his stomach. With his shock controlled, Harry noticed how pale he was. Pale and soaked to the skin. Was that…blood on his shirtfront, diluted into a shocking scarlet mess?

"What's wrong with you?" Harry asked, panic returning.

Malfoy couldn't answer. His legs were not supporting him. Unthinking, Harry grabbed his arms to steady him. The blonde was in serious pain, trembling and speechless with it.

"Malfoy, what happened?" he demanded.

Draco shook his head. He opened his mouth – his lips were grey, unnatural – and a thick stream of blood dripped down his chin. He gestured to his arm. On the inside of his elbow there was a rapidly darkening bruise surrounding a small puncture mark. It looked like someone had forcibly given him an injection of something.

"P-poison," he choked. "Dying…Potter…!"

Right. Right, he was dying. That called for action. Without much thought, Harry wrapped the bleeding Malfoy in a bear hug and apparated.

* * *

The apparition to St. Mungo's made it worse. Draco was barely breathing. He was coughing up blood and Harry was forced to press the Puddlemere United jersey to his lips to soak it up. The mediwitches took one look at them and wrenched Draco from his grasp. Harry was left alone in the waiting room, a broad splash of Malfoy's blood across his shirt, disturbed and bewildered.

* * *

Lucius was not paying attention to the conference call. Something was nagging at his consciousness. Something was out of place. Sighing, he lifted his eyes to the window and watched the rain drip down the glass, distorting the outside world. It was the first rain since that violent storm after Ginny Weasley's confession. He was beginning to feel as bad as he had then.

A sound startled him. He turned his head, training his ear. Someone was in his flat. He left the phone going; if something happened, they would hear. They could call for help on his behalf. The Ministry monitored his vital signs, too, from afar, and aurors would come if they were disrupted. They had granted him that, since he was essentially defenseless and someone many people would like to see dead.

He stood up but didn't move. He would stay put. He had a pocket knife in the drawer. It would be mostly useless. He had no other weapon except his own wits. They were not to be underestimated, though…

A shadow fell in the doorway. It was him – the mud-haired paparazzo.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," he said, his voice cold. He had no camera. He wasn't here to take pictures, then.

"So we meet again."

"So we do."

The voices on the phone had paused, hearing the exchange.

"Hang up the phone, Malfoy. Don't try anything. You'll be sorry if you do."

"Luc?" a distant voice asked. Emma, the muggle client from Leeds - she sounded pretty over the phone, though he'd never seen her to prove it. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," he said. _There's someone in my house trying to kill me._ "Goodbye, Emma."

"Wait!" But he had already hit the button, cutting her off. Silence filled the room.

"Well here we are, Malfoy," the paparazzo said. "We haven't been properly introduced. My name is Ethan."

Lucius declined his head slightly. The photographer cum hit man's wand was in his hand, tapping against the side of his leg. It would not be long before he used it. All right, then – it was time for pain or death or both. This Ethan looked like the type who might be stupid enough to play around instead of killing his quarry right away, though. That alone would give him a chance. That, Lucius reflected a bit too serenely, was his only chance.

* * *

Hermione thought she was hallucinating. What the hell was Harry doing in her hotel room in Prague?

"Hermione!" he whispered sharply. "Hermione, wake up."

"Harry?" she said blearily, blinking.

"Yes. Hermione, you have to come with me."

"What's wrong?" Her senses were returning, and along with them a strong feeling of dread. Harry would not come all the way to the Czech Republic to find her if something was not terribly wrong. "Is Ginny all right? Ron?"

"They're both fine." Harry frowned, the urgency of the situation making it all right for him to see her in her underwear. There was no air conditioner and it was hot and her mother didn't care. He handed her a shirt and she hurriedly threw it on, along with a pair of capris that were draped over a chair.

"Is my mum safe to be here alone?"

He nodded. "Leave her a note. I don't know how long this will take."

"Harry, what is wrong?"

Harry bit his lip. "The Malfoys. Someone…got both of them."

"Got? What do you mean, got?" she whispered. She had to hold onto a chair. Please, please don't let him say that they were dead. Please…

"Draco was poisoned. They don't know any more than that. Lucius…"

"Tell me," she pressed. It hurt like hell, but she had to know.

"Someone attacked him. Hexed him badly. Aurors intervened in time. They're both at St. Mungo's, both touch and go right now."

"Oh, sweet Merlin. This has to be…"

Harry took hold of her arm. "Come with me now, speculate later, Hermione." And she was being pulled away in the grip of side-along apparition, Harry guiding her back to her conundrum that was now a hundred times more complicated.

* * *

They were in different wards. She didn't know who to go see first. She was about to ask Harry to pick a number when she noticed the brick-colored stain on his sleeve.

"Is that blood?" she asked, aghast.

He nodded. "Malfoy's. Draco's," he clarified.

"You brought him in?"

"He showed up at your flat when I was there to drop something off." Harry gave her a penetrating look. "He didn't have a lot of time. The healers say it was a potent poison. Hermione, he chose you to save his life."

She burst into tears. Harry blanched. Oh, that was _not_ what he had intended. She was thinking that she hadn't been there in his time of need and feeling horribly guilty. Harry had only meant it in the sense that Malfoy's trust spoke volumes. He was surer now than ever that she was actually involved with Draco, if not with _both_ of them. Good Lord.

"I didn't mean it like that," he said softly, pulling her into a hug. "Don't feel guilty. It isn't your fault."

"It is, Harry! This has something to do with Skeeter, I'm telling you!"

"Come on," he said gently, physically moving her. "You should see them now."

* * *

When they walked into Draco's room, the mediwizard was there making notes.

"Ah," he said, "Mr. Potter. You'll be pleased to know that Mr. Malfoy is going to pull through."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"No, thank you. Another few minutes and he would have been beyond our abilities to save."

"I'm glad I was in the right place at the right time, then."

The mediwizard nodded and shook Harry's hand. He gave Hermione a sympathetic look and squeezed her shoulder.

"He'll be fine in a week or so, miss."

But Draco didn't look fine. He looked nearly dead in the hospital bed, as pale as the sheets, stained with dried blood. His breathing was shallow. She sat down, trying to center herself. He was going to be all right. There was no reason to fall to pieces. Harry rubbed her shoulder and the slight pressure calmed her.

"I have to go, Hermione. But I wanted to tell you something before I left." He walked around and sat across from her on the edge of Draco's bed, careful not to disturb him or any of the equipment. "After he came out of acute treatment, he was semiconscious, babbling a lot. Most of it was nonsense, but…he did say a few things that were important."

"Like what?" she sniffled.

"He grabbed my arm and asked me to tell you that he loves you."

A stunned moment of silence passed. Then she looked at him incredulously. "And you think that wasn't nonsense?"

"It wasn't, Hermione. He meant it." Harry sighed. He had made a few deathbed confessions of his own, thinking his end was near, and consequently he knew the look of a man who was doing the same. "He wouldn't have said anything if he didn't think he was going to die, but obviously he did. He thought it was his last chance."

Damn Draco and his last chances. Tears prickled in her eyes.

"My gut instinct," Harry went on, "is to warn you away. To tell you not to get involved with him. But I know what he's doing for you. He's really turned things around. And while I barely trust him…" Harry shrugged, "love is hard to deny, and sometimes it's enough to make a person change." He gave her a platonic kiss on the cheek and stood. "The other one is on the third floor, room 319. Floo if you need anything."

* * *

She sat with Draco for a long time, until a nurse chased her out so he could finally wash the dried blood from his torso. Time, then, to face Lucius. Her albatross…

His room was cool and dark. She knew instantly that someone was already there with him. She wasn't sure who it could be. Whoever it was, they were crying. She had thought that only Draco would shed a tear for him, Draco and herself, so who was this, sniffling and sobbing quietly? She edged into the room cautiously. Oh. It was Narcissa…

The pretty witch hadn't aged much. Whether that was because of good genes or cosmetic spells, she'd never know. Right now her sculpted cheeks were flushed, her eyes red and swollen, a handkerchief held to her narrow nose. Hermione saw why; Lucius looked terrible. Where Draco had been pale, white as a ghost, Lucius's face was a vibrant smear of blood and bruises, his lip split and puffy. And if Narcissa was crying like this, his prognosis couldn't be good.

Hermione felt tears pool in her own eyes. It must have been terrible for him, completely defenseless, not even able to call for help. The things they could have done to him, might have done to him…and she was sure he had taken it all in resigned quietude, stoic even in his own death. And it was _her_ fault. She had been the one to suck him – _them­_ – into this. No matter how willing they had been, this was her plot. Her foolish quest for ill-defined vengeance. She should have gotten to know her enemy a little better. Never had she thought that Rita Skeeter was capable of this. Had her impromptu trip with her mother saved her from a similar fate?

Her sniffle gave her away. Narcissa's head jerked up. Her watery blue eyes took Hermione in and she stood up abruptly.

"I guess…he doesn't need…his silly ex-wife…for company…now that you're here," she gasped out, her breath unsteady from the crying. She evidently believed what the papers had been saying – that Hermione and Lucius were a couple.

"Don't go," Hermione replied. "Please, stay."

Narcissa sat back down warily, unsure what to make of her. Hermione noticed the substantial ring on her left hand; she had remarried, then. It said a lot that she was here, though, sobbing over the man she had left.

They were quiet for a long time. Though their coexistence was strained, it was still comforting. Narcissa's tears tapered off, as did Hermione's, and they sat in exhausted catharsis as the moon rose outside.

"Why would anyone do this to him?" Narcissa said at last. "He's been perfect since the end of the war, absolutely perfect."

"Sometimes perfect isn't good enough," Hermione offered.

"Don't I know it," the other woman murmured, folding her handkerchief. Narcissa Black offered her a fragile smile. "I should go see Draco."

Hermione nodded. "They'll be all right," she felt compelled to say.

Narcissa turned back at the door, scanning the curly-haired witch at her ex-husband's bedside. "Yes," she said softly, "I think they will."

* * *

Harry lay in bed, Ginny pillowed against his chest. They were silent, listening intently to the Wizard Wireless. Once again the Malfoys were eclipsing his own headlines, but for a good reason.

He never would have thought that wizards and witches would be in a righteous uproar about a former Death Eater and his son. Most people should have turned up their nose at his misfortune, thinking that he deserved it and not sparing a moment's pity for him. But the people wiring in to Kalafut and Icarus's radio show were anything but apathetic.

"It's an outrage," a male listener was ranting. "A wizard should have the right to defend himself. Malfoy's done six years without tripping up. Giving him his wand back is not going to suddenly turn him into a monster."

The next person, a woman, said, "He's reformed, there's no doubt about it. It isn't right that we continue to punish him when the punishment has obviously done its job."

"I think the Ministry is lucky that this didn't happen before now," Icarus chimed in. "It's ludicrous to leave any wizard with his past utterly defenseless. If he dies, it's on their head. A lot of people won't be happy about it."

"He could die?" Ginny said, her finger idly tracing a circle on Harry's chest. "It's that bad?"

Harry nodded.

"And one has to wonder if Draco Malfoy's poisoning is related," Kalafut added. "St. Mungo's has stated that young Mr. Malfoy will be all right, but he was very close to death."

"It must be. Same day. How could it not be related?" Icarus said. "This was an attempt to erase the Malfoys."

"That leads us back to the question, who would do this, and why now? Who would target both of them? Draco Malfoy is in possession of his wand, so who is dangerous enough to attempt murder on a fully armed, well-trained wizard and nearly get away with it?"

"There are no answers just yet, but folks, if you have any information, please contact the Ministry. Let's catch these madmen before they hurt anyone else."

Harry flicked his wand and the wireless turned off. The lights were next. Both of them were curiously exhausted.

"The dog," Ginny said sleepily, shifting against him. "His other dog. No one will be there to feed it or walk it."

"It can last the night," Harry replied. "We'll take care of it in the morning."

* * *

It didn't occur to them that they wouldn't be able to get in until Ginny had led them almost all the way there.

"An alohomora would work, don't you think?" Harry asked.

"If you were Malfoy, would you leave your flat unwarded?" Ginny asked.

"Good point."

Ginny sighed. "I feel awful. That poor dog."

"Hermione can probably get in. We'll pay her a visit at St. Mungo's." They stood outside Malfoy's flat now, staring up at it.

"Excuse me?" a female voice sounded from behind them. "Excuse me, are you friends of Luc Malfoy?"

They turned. A woman was standing on the sidewalk. She was a willowy thirtysomething, with dark brown curls and blue eyes. A pair of glasses that suited her face was perched on her nose, and she was dressed in a deep blue blouse and a slate-colored pencil skirt. Harry was careful not to let his glance linger too long; Ginny would smack him. She was pretty, though, towering in heels that made her almost as tall as him.

"Yes," Ginny answered slowly, as unaccustomed to that admission as Harry was.

"Oh, thank goodness. Is he all right?"

Harry and Ginny exchanged a glance. How would this muggle woman know he'd been attacked?

Her fingers twined nervously. "I was on the phone with him when someone came in. Told him hang up and not to try anything or he'd regret it. I asked him if something was wrong and he said yes and then he hung up. I called the police, of course, but I never heard anything back. No one seemed to know what I was talking about when I called."

That was about right. The aurors would get there before the police even got in their cars and records of a call to muggle authorities would be erased.

"He's…" Harry started.

"He's a little worse for the wear," Ginny took over. "They're not sure if he's going to make it."

"Oh," the woman said, her hand going to her mouth. "Oh, that's awful."

"I'm Ginny, by the way," the redhead said, holding out a hand. "This is my boyfriend Harry."

"Emma," she said, visibly upset. "I'm one of his clients. I came down from Leeds when I couldn't get any answers…"

"He's under the best care he can get," Harry said. "And he's strong."

She nodded. "Any chance I could see him?" She sighed. "It's silly, we've never even met face to face, but I was so worried."

"It's perfectly understandable," Ginny sympathized. "You must have been frightened." She looked at Harry briefly before turning back to Emma. "Right now only family is allowed to be with him, but why don't you give me your phone number? We can call you when that changes."

"Oh, thank you so much. That would be great." The brunette scrawled a number on the back of her card. "The number on the front is my office. The back is my mobile."

"You'll hear from us," Ginny smiled, taking the card. Emma nodded and began to walk down the block, a set of car keys in her hand.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked when she was out of earshot.

"For one thing, if she heard the attacker's voice she could potentially identify him or testify against him," Ginny said. Harry felt stupid for not thinking of that, but that was why he had Ginny. "And for another, she's gorgeous."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Ginny just smiled. "Let's go to St. Mungo's."

* * *

Four days later

Hermione sat with Narcissa and Ginny. By now it had become a comfortable vigil; she and Narcissa alternated between Draco and Lucius, and Ginny stopped by every now and then to keep them company. She could see that Ginny and Narcissa genuinely liked one another, something no one would have expected. The two of them chattered like old girlfriends, most of the time about things she had never heard of, but that was all right.

They were chattering about just such a thing now. Hermione had tuned them out, mostly, her eyes fixed on Lucius's face. She had stared into him for hours, willing him to wake, praying that he would come out of it, and only the bruised, comatose mask met her. But today…

"Look!" she nearly shouted, hoping she wasn't hallucinating. Ginny and Narcissa stopped mid-sentence and cast their eyes eagerly upon him.

He was stirring. His eyes flickered. Then, with what appeared to be a very great effort, his lashes rose and the reassuring blue of his irises were revealed. His eyes were focused, coherent – he was back.

"Lucius!" Narcissa gasped, moving forward to encircle his hand with her smaller ones.

"Ah, look," he said hoarsely, his eyes scanning. "It's my…favorite women, all waiting melodramatically at my bedside." Ginny did not bat an eye at her inclusion; she figured she was in the group because she was there and he was half-delirious. Hermione, however, couldn't find a trace of a polite lie in his speech.

"Don't joke," she said.

"I'm tired," he murmured, his eyes closing briefly before he forced them open again. "Find the phone."

"What?"

"The phone. The cell phone, mobile, whatever."

"Why?"

"It was in my pocket. I got him to talk. It was recording the entire thing. But I think it fell out, onto the floor…" he paused, his face contorting slightly as some unknown pain washed over him. His voice was more labored when he continued. "He implicated Skeeter, the idiot."

"I knew it!" Hermione exploded. "I knew this was related to that…that…!"

"Cunt?" Narcissa supplied, perfectly proper and angelic in spite of the vulgar declaration. Hermione blinked, mildly shocked, but then nodded. Ginny smiled, and Lucius let out a brief laugh before he thought better of it, wincing.

"Still…sharp, I see," he said. Then he frowned. "Where is Draco?"

Hermione shared an apprehensive glance with the other women. Draco was not doing as well as they thought he would, but he was in no danger of dying. Still, Lucius didn't know he was ill at all and he wouldn't take it well.

"Downstairs," Narcissa said craftily. It wasn't a lie. He _was_ downstairs. It just conveniently left out the fact that he, too, was laid up in a hospital bed. "He'll be back in a while."

Lucius nodded, too tired to have caught the mild current of deception. "Phone," he said, his eyes slipping shut. "And…dog. Oberon."

"Oberon's fine. Harry and I have him," Ginny said.

Lucius nodded again, and a mere second later he was asleep.

* * *

Draco's grey eyes opened, tired but aware, and he gave Hermione a weak smile. "Hi."

"Hi," she responded, shutting the door behind her. "Your father is awake."

"Finally," he said, closing his eyes in relief. He didn't need to say how worried he had been; it showed on his face. He was still ashen, still exhausted, but he no longer looked like a corpse.

"Now you can stop worrying and focus on getting yourself better."

Draco's chapped lips curved into another smile. "You sound just like my mum."

"Well, your mum is a smart witch."

"I'm glad you two get along." His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the sheet that covered him. "I didn't think you'd like her much."

"Why?" she asked curiously.

"Well, when we were talking about the divorce, back when all of this started, you had this silent accusation in your eyes. Like…how could she leave him?"

Hermione was taken aback. She knew that sometimes her thoughts displayed on her face a little too readily, but Draco's interpretation was spot-on. Narcissa Black had occupied a strange compartment in the back of her mind from the beginning, tormenting her with ambiguity. Was it Narcissa who was the cruel one, or had Lucius really deserved to be left? She still didn't know, but Narcissa was not at all like she thought she would be.

"I'm sure she had her reasons," Hermione said at last. "It isn't my right to pry."

Draco nodded and breathed a sigh that turned into a yawn. He was relaxing, but there was one more bomb that she had to drop on him before he got to sleep.

"Your father said that it was someone associated with Skeeter that attacked him."

Draco's eyes flew open. "Really?"

"Yes. He also said that he recorded the whole thing on his mobile, so there is concrete evidence."

"I never thought I'd say this, but thank goodness for muggle technology," Draco shook his head. Hermione smiled.

"With that recording and what she did to Ron, we ought to be able to put her away." She sat on the edge of his bed, thoughtful. "And if we can connect the poisoning to her, also…"

"I told you, I didn't see who stuck me. I was in a crowd. Someone just walked by, jabbed me, and faded away. I couldn't waste time looking around."

"It had to be someone she hired," Hermione insisted. "People don't just go around randomly poisoning one another."

"I don't doubt for a minute that she had something to do with it. I was sticking my nose into things I shouldn't have. Evidently she got wind of it, and…"

"She's insane," Hermione said, rubbing her temples. "I didn't think she'd go this far."

"Now we know better." His arm wrapped around her, innocuous but meaningful, and it occurred to her how little she knew about Draco. He had walked back into her life suddenly and explosively, said and done things she never thought he would, propelled _her_ to say and do things she never thought _she_ would – and she had barely scratched the surface. It made her terrifically uneasy, but she couldn't deny that his arm around her felt good…and safe.

"Yes," she said softly, resting a hand on the cool skin of his forearm, "now we know better."


	9. Interlude

Author's Note: This is intended as an interlude, to transition the story from part 1 to part 2. Don't assume anything. ;) Thanks for the reviews, as always, and I love to hear from you!

* * *

The healers said that Draco was lucky. They had finally gotten the results of the poison analysis. It was a very intentional combination of arsenic and woodruff diluted in snake venom. Whoever had administered it really wanted him dead. Any of the three ingredients could have been enough to kill him; the arsenic would cause organ failure, the woodruff, which muggles knew as coumarin, would make him bleed to death, and the snake venom would shut down his nervous system. It was amazing that he'd been able to stand, much less apparate. The healers weren't kidding when they said a few more minutes would have been the end of Draco Malfoy.

That was why Lucius was improving more quickly; most of the damage had been to his outside. There were exceptions, of course, the lacerated liver chief among them. He had taken a hell of a beating, the extent of which only he knew, and a near-fatal bout of Cruciatus. However, Draco's very insides had been close to liquefaction. Understandably his system was still in shock and it would be some time before he was himself again.

Lucius had been incensed to discover that his son was in the hospital, too, and even more infuriated when he realized they had kept it from him. Two days after waking, he had stormed down to Draco's room in spite of all their entreaties not to. And he was there still; he had half-persuaded, half-bullied the staff into changing his room. He had not spoken to any of them for a day and a half afterwards.

Curiously, this belligerence put a smile on Narcissa's face that wouldn't fade. Hermione couldn't claim to understand it. She also pretended not to notice when Narcissa's monster ring was suddenly absent. If the woman thought Lucius didn't know, she was a fool – but Hermione was still far from an expert in the relations of Slytherins.

So, as August began she found herself spending her days at St. Mungo's. God help her, she was really beginning to become attached to the Malfoys. They caused a scandal almost daily; today's was aided by Ginny. She snuck Oberon and Titania in and the healers took serious objection to them at first, but when they saw the dogs jump up on Lucius and lick him like it was going out of style, they relaxed. Lucius was currently asleep, snoring quietly with a proud grey dog on either side of him. Ginny and Narcissa were in the cafeteria eating lunch.

"You're going to make me eat that, aren't you," Draco sighed, eyeing the yogurt in her hand.

"Yes. You have to eat or you'll never get your strength back."

Draco sighed. Food was currently his enemy. He had articulated two days ago that eating solid food felt like trying to digest glass. The healers weren't quite sure what to do about it, but it was clear that nutritional potions weren't cutting it. He'd already lost nine pounds and he couldn't lose anymore; he had been skinny to begin with.

Hermione opened the yogurt and set it in front of him. Reluctantly, he took the spoon.

"I am so tired of this hospital," he muttered.

"We all are, I think," she nodded. Her glance traveled to Lucius. He was almost entirely healed. They were only keeping him to make sure his liver function was consistent and because excessive exposure to Cruciatus could sometimes cause seizures. It was day 13, though, and he was seizure-free. If he made it through tomorrow with no ill effects, he would probably be discharged.

Draco frowned, but valiantly began to eat the yogurt. She reflected that through all of this, they hadn't had much time to talk. With Lucius or Narcissa constantly in the room there was no privacy and Draco's energy was so low that he spent half his time asleep. He was awake now, though, and for once the room was silent. Hermione tilted her head to the side and contemplated him.

"You're much quieter than you used to be."

He glanced up and shrugged. "I did an awful lot of talking back in school…without really saying much." That was certainly true; her expression told him how true. He toyed with the yogurt, scooping a blob of it onto the spoon and then letting it drip back into the container. "Since the war I've spent a lot of time thinking about what is worth saying."

Silence lingered between them and he returned to the yogurt. He was eating determinedly, but she could tell that it was already bothering his stomach. Perhaps talking would take his mind off the pain. However, just as she was about to open her mouth, he placed the spoon inside the yogurt container and pushed it away.

"No more or you'll get to watch it come back up."

"No thanks," she said, smiling at his attempt to lighten the mood.

"They have to find a way to fix this," he sighed, swallowing and rubbing his stomach. "I'll lose my mind if I feel this way all the time."

"Is it really that bad?"

He looked away. He, like Lucius, would not want to admit to weakness. Lucius was doing a good job of pretending that he did not hurt but they all knew better. He was sleeping sixteen hours a day; the effort of the charade was so great that it pummeled him into sudden narcolepsy every few hours.

"It's bad," was all Draco said a minute later. He turned onto his side, unconsciously curling up. "Maybe I can sleep it off…"

She touched his arm and it was tense. He was breathing through his mouth a little too quickly. His skin was warm, his heart racing, and a crease appeared between his eyebrows. She recognized the signs of miserable nausea; she'd had enough bouts of stomach flu to know what he was feeling. It never became less awful.

She climbed into the bed next to him, seeking to give him the same unthinking comfort he had offered a week before when his arm snuck around her waist. She placed the hospital's plastic container next to him before snuggling up to his back. It occurred to her that she had done this for Lucius not so long ago. How strange it was to offer comfort to them, two men who never wanted or needed anyone's bloody comfort, and have it accepted. Wordlessly, thanklessly, but acceptance was as good as thanks.

She watched his hand as it worried the blanket, clenching, relaxing, working rhythmically to dispel what he was feeling. That was how he rode it out, willing the nausea away, and thirty minutes later that was how he fell asleep, his lanky body at last relaxed against her.

* * *

Hermione was half asleep, pressed against Draco in the hospital bed, when Ginny and Narcissa entered.

"Shh," she heard Narcissa murmur, "they're sleeping."

"How cute!" Ginny exclaimed. "They'd be so annoyed if we took a picture."

"A picture is not a wise idea. Lucius might strike you dead. He's not too enamored of photographers right now."

Ginny laughed. "It's not a picture of him."

"All the same," Narcissa shrugged.

It was a mark of how things had changed, Hermione thought, that Ginny could laugh at a comment that included mention of Lucius killing her, joking or otherwise. It was also a great portent that Narcissa didn't care that a muggleborn was in bed with her son. Perhaps the greatest indicator of all was that Lucius didn't care, either.

The two of them moved around the room quietly. Narcissa woke Lucius and Hermione's ears registered the sound of him stretching.

"I ought to take the dogs," Ginny whispered. "The healers were giving me dirty looks."

"Bugger them," Lucius yawned.

"They're probably hungry, though."

She heard the click of nails as the dogs climbed down from his bed. They shook themselves, ears flopping.

"Don't feed Titania so much," Lucius said. "She's gaining weight."

"Don't you listen to him, Titania," Ginny addressed the dog. "You're beautiful just the way you are."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake." She could practically hear Lucius rolling his eyes.

Narcissa laughed softly at them. A moment later Ginny exited, the dogs in tow. Several minutes passed and Hermione was beginning to drift toward sleep when Narcissa spoke again.

"They're asleep."

"Mm hmm."

Hermione chewed her lip. That was a perfectly normal exchange, she shouldn't read into it…

But a few moments later there were some unidentified shuffling noises and a slight creak. And then – oh yes, that was the sound of two people kissing. Lucius Malfoy and his ex-wife, to be exact. Two scandals in one day; they were outdoing themselves.

Hermione cracked an eye open. Sure enough, Narcissa was on top of him, straddling his lap, and they were joined at the lips. Oh my, now that was a kiss. A kiss of two people who had not been together in far too long, striving to taste one another and relearn what they had missed.

If she moved now, they would realize she was not asleep and stop. She could pretend she hadn't heard or seen them, they would be quick enough to separate, and the entire situation would be diffused. She wouldn't have to sit here and listen to them snog. But in spite of how she felt about adultery, which was less than positive, this seemed different. It seemed like…peacemaking.

And it was going to be more than snogging. Lucius was already peeling her blouse off. "The curtain, Cissa," he murmured huskily. The slim blonde witch flicked her wand and the curtain that separated his side of the room from Draco's unfurled.

Hermione shifted, finding a more comfortable spot next to Draco, who was mercifully and utterly unconscious. Doubtless he would rather gouge his own eyes out than witness his parents' intimacy. She pushed a strand of pale hair aside and kissed his temple. As she did, a soft, feminine sigh drifted through the air. Weren't they going to cast a silencing charm? A throaty growl from Lucius answered. Apparently not.

This changed things. Listening to them would be plain voyeuristic. She could leave. If she was stealthy, they would be too distracted to notice. But what if someone came in? Oh, she was a saint. She deserved a medal. Or maybe she was just a bit kinkier than anyone, including herself, knew.

They were trying to be quiet, she could tell, but the sounds of mouths and lungs and pleasure were impossible to cover. She closed her eyes, knowing exactly what Narcissa was doing to him. Lucky her. This should not be arousing her. Really, it shouldn't. But her fantasy images, so torturous, could not be quelled once they had been generated. There were too many pheromones in the air. If Draco was not so weak…

A vision of him beneath her flashed behind her eyes. Damn it all, she could almost _feel_ his hands on her hips, pressing her down upon the evidence of his need…

The sounds beyond the curtain were not doing anything to cool her down. They were full-on shagging now. Their breath mingled together, quick and paced, and the bed protested with a slight squeak. All was well for a few minutes, and then Lucius's voice rang out, loud and pained.

"Ouch! Ow – Narcissa!"

Draco stirred beside her, but didn't wake. Hermione felt mildly alarmed and hoped Lucius wasn't hurt. People did sometimes manage to injure themselves terrifically during sex.

"What? What did I do?" his ex-wife sounded panicked.

There was a silence. Then he spoke, his voice a little rough, "Nothing. I'm fine. Just…in the future, try not to elbow me in the liver."

Hermione had to bite her lips to contain a giggle.

"I'll have to make it up to you," Narcissa whispered.

"Mmm," he purred. "Please do."

There was no more speech after that. It was indecent how horny this was making her, but she refused to feel shame for it. It wasn't her fault they were behaving like teenagers. Their pace became more frenzied and they knocked something over; it clattered to the floor, but it didn't seem loud in comparison to the overlapping lust-filled moans that sounded a few minutes later. Listening to them finish, gasping and sighing, Hermione finally understood. She understood why Narcissa had been smiling so much, why she had spontaneously slept with Draco three Sundays ago, and, paradoxically, why she and Lucius had backed away from their mutual desire.

Sometimes peacemaking and lovemaking were the same thing – and sometimes they were not.


	10. Chapter 9

Here we go, the start of part 2 of the fic...but first some responses (now that I'm out of school I have more time to respond to reviews individually):

Arys: Thank you. That's high praise. I really try to write things that are interesting and different, but at the same time they aren't for everyone. Glad my fic is for you, though! :)

Earwen: Yes, it's me! Mwahahaha. Who is this Leafygirl? Do I need to check out her fics?

mrs.twizzler: Mm, twizzlers. Heh. Yeah, I wouldn't think to leave poor Lucius by himself...but it won't be all smooth sailing. There is much more to come.

Cyranothe2nd: Yes, Hermione and Draco are, as you'll see in this chapter, solidifying into a couple. :)

sarabara8692: Thanks!

Duco Lacuna: You know, for a long time I wasn't a big fan of Narcissa either. However, just like Lucius, she can be interpreted in many ways. People have told me that they really like my Narcissa (at least in this fic, because I've definitely portrayed her in a less than flattering way in others). I just figure that someone who is Bellatrix's sister MUST have some spunk to her, just for surviving growing up with her! Like I said to mrs.twizzler, this Lucissa pairing won't be all smooth sailing...but I did want to establish that they have significant chemistry and are perhaps a little more enamored with one another post-divorce than either of them thought. A case of absence making the heart grow fonder...

Eternity-xxx: Thank you! I'm glad you've enjoyed the story so far. Plenty more ahead...

chanela: I know, a lot of people wish this had wound up Lucius/Hermione. If you want that, read my other fic Hungry Thirsty Crazy. That's just not the direction my muse wanted to go in for this story. I can't please everyone, sadly. I hope you'll keep reading in spite of my muse's obstinacy.

* * *

September 6

"Say hello," Lucius said, dropping a photograph onto the table, "to Rita Mancini."

"Rita Mancini?" Draco asked around a mouthful of Chinese food. He was the only one eating it with a fork; he saw no point in grappling with chopsticks. Lucius, of course, was an expert, probably the most graceful consumer of lo mein she had ever seen, and Hermione found this stranger even than watching him play football.

"Does she look familiar?"

Hermione contemplated the picture. It was a young woman with poorly tamed blonde curls and glasses that magnified her eyes. She was pretty but was the type that didn't know what to do with it; Hermione had been one of those, once, too.

"That can't be her," Draco said.

"Who?"

"Skeeter," he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"No!" Hermione didn't believe it. The woman in the photograph did resemble her a bit, but she had none of the smugness of Rita Skeeter. Or perhaps Hermione had an image so ingrained in her mind that she could not see her any other way.

"It is her," Lucius nodded. "At age eighteen."

"You've been poking around," Hermione accused.

Lucius cast exasperated eyes upon her. "Of course I have. They're still out there and I, for one, am not willing to just wait for their next appearance." _Considering that the first one nearly killed us,_ went the unspoken corollary. "Don't worry," he added. "I'm not doing anything illegal."

Hermione frowned. Lucius had different ideas about what constituted illegality than she did. His below-the-radar work with the Bulstrodes proved that. However, he was not stupid; he'd been caught red-handed once, learned from it, and it would not happen again. She was sure of that.

In spite of his ingenuity and the damning recording on his mobile, nothing could be done. Skeeter and Ethan had both fled the country. They were nowhere to be found. It was, at least, mildly satisfying to know that they were fugitives and that aurors in every country were ready to pounce on them. Without Rita Skeeter and her mysterious paparazzo, the news had been dormant, as well.

Yes, things were good…but uneasy. She found herself worrying about them, Draco and especially Lucius, now that she had returned to her teaching job at Hogwarts. She burned to know where Skeeter was, what she was doing, and wondered if things would escalate. Lucius was evidently of the same mind. She could at least take comfort in the fact that if there was a puzzle to be pieced, Lucius would solve it whether he had a wand or not.

She turned to Draco. He wore an expression that said he was reaching his limit with the Chinese food. His stomach was better, much better than it had been, but it still wasn't quite the same.

"You too?" she asked him.

Draco shook his head. "I've got classes. I don't have time."

"Classes?"

"Yeah, you know, that whole doctorate in potions thing…"

Hermione nearly fell of her chair.

"You're doing a doctorate in potions?"

Draco nodded. He looked faintly embarrassed at her reaction.

"Who are you studying under?" she almost shouted.

"Do we need to hose you down?" Lucius interjected sarcastically.

"Just tell me!"

"Fine," Draco mumbled. "Finley Greene."

"Finley…Jacob…Greene?" she squeaked, awestruck even by the name.

She registered that both of them were snickering at her. Lucius, behind his hand as usual, and Draco openly, with a slight shake of his head and an indulgent expression on his face.

"Oh Merlin," Hermione breathed at last. "Oh, that makes you more qualified to teach potions than me!"

"I don't think that teaching is my calling, Hermione. Your job is safe."

Hermione sat back and poked at her General Tso's. Teaching potions at Hogwarts for the last two years had certainly been an experience. She understood now why Snape, rest his soul, had always been so dour; when it came to the doling of talents, potion-making was one that very few people ever received. She and Draco were probably the best that Hogwarts had churned out in a long time. She had her Potions Mistress certification (in addition to those in Charms and Arithmancy) and he was going for a doctorate, which was one step above.

"What is Greene researching now?" she couldn't resist asking.

"Curing vampirism."

She was close to swooning. "Has he made any progress?"

"I don't know. I only just started."

Hermione slapped a palm onto the table. "How are you so casual about this?" she demanded. "This is brilliant. _You're_ brilliant." He had to be to get a position with Finley Greene!

By this point Lucius had strategically removed himself. He was remarkably good at that; Draco looked as though he wished he could do the same. She was convinced that he had a serious problem accepting compliments.

"I know I am," he said at last, highly uncomfortable. "But I don't feel the need to broadcast it."

Of all the things that she had seen, done, and experienced in the last two months (many of which were completely bizarre and unforeseen), this shocked her the most. Draco Malfoy had learned humility. _Draco__ Malfoy._

"Why are you looking at me like that?" His voice held an edge of annoyance.

"You…the kid I grew up with would never…he'd be gloating, mocking, rubbing it in my face that he was outdoing me."

"I thought we had established that I'm not that kid anymore." The edge of annoyance had burgeoned into pure indignance. His eyes were angry, perhaps even wounded.

This was the first time she had seen him since his discharge from the hospital two weeks ago. In spite of her best hopes she and Draco had not managed to do anything that remotely resembled culminating a relationship in that long month of hospitalization. She supposed it was fair; he had more important things to concentrate on. But watching him struggle to get well, knowing that it was because of her that he was sick in the first place…she had fallen into some kind of nurturing robot role and forgotten all about the raging lust that had gripped her twice that summer. Once consummated in the hallway of this very flat, and once in her own head while she lay beside him.

Her jumbled feelings returned full-force. She was out of her chair so fast that it nearly fell over. He made a shocked noise when she flew into his lap, which she proceeded to stifle with an exhilarated kiss. She could tell that he had absolutely no idea how to react. Eventually, though, he relaxed and his lips attended to hers.

She wasn't sure how long they sat there, kissing as if it was the first time. Gradually the kisses deepened and his tongue stroked hers, pliant and enticing. His hands came to rest on her backside. She couldn't recall a more pleasant application of those hands. Oh, wait…yes she could…

She pulled her lips away, weathering a surge of desire.

"Let's go to the guestroom."

"Not while my father is here."

"He won't bother us."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "You think?"

She sighed, exasperated. "Fine. My flat."

"Unnecessary," a third voice rejoined. Lucius strode through the room, pointedly ignoring their compromising pose. "I'm going out."

"To where?" Hermione asked, unable to override her protectiveness. He was still unarmed; all the sympathy and outrage the general public had expressed had done little to alter the mindset of the Ministry.

"None of your business, mum," Lucius retorted. "Don't have sex in my bed or on the table. Those are my rules." And with that, he was out the door.

Hermione stared at the empty spot where he'd stood a moment before, incredulous. Draco laughed, his chest vibrating against her.

"His rules haven't changed."

* * *

So they had gone to the guestroom after all, falling upon the bed together. It didn't escape her notice that Draco maneuvered so that she was on top. She was more than happy to straddle him and lean down to reclaim his lips. His hands skimmed up and down her back before settling on her rear end. He squeezed with relish and pressed her against his groin. She smiled into his mouth; he felt it and closed his teeth around her lower lip. He worried it, his tongue stroking for a minute before he released her.

She looked down at him. He looked right back. His eyes, gray and clear and strangely comforting, were no longer shuttered. She had seen him at his worst in the hospital and consequently he had given up the façade.

"You know," he said quietly, "this will put us right back where we started."

She peered at him, her head tilted slightly to the side. He was right; they had gone in circles around a real relationship, all the while touching upon everything in between. The past had provided hate, contempt, mild tolerance, and the present friendship and pure scorching passion – but never that elusive and terrifying love thing. A memory flickered in her mind, a recollection of Harry telling her that Malfoy said he loved her. He had not mentioned it upon waking and she hadn't asked.

She was sure it had been delirium. Draco didn't love her. His eyes held hers, though, watching her sift through things in her mind. No, he didn't love her – not yet.

"I'm all right with that," she said at last. "It isn't a bad place to start over. It's not as if we regressed."

He smirked. "No. We won't be doing that." His hands left her bottom to work on the button of her shorts. She chuckled and captured his hands.

"Eager?"

"I've been half-dead for the last month," he huffed, easily freeing himself from her grip. "You're supposed to be sympathetic."

"Ah?" she tested, rocking forward on his hips. "Is that why you want me? Because you're neglected?"

She was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. This time he captured her hands, pulling them out from under her so that she fell on top of him, chest to chest. He kissed her, holding onto her wrists tightly, and the gentle sensuality of his lips seared her to the core. This…the dark room, the impeccable furnishings, the soft linens, the moonlight that threw everything into soft angles…this was actually…

Romantic.

Draco released her hands. They relaxed automatically against his chest, palm down. The fingers of his right hand twined into her hair, and his left trailed down her back slowly, at first ghosting across the strip of skin between her shirt and shorts, and then brazenly slipping beneath her shorts and knickers to cup her buttocks.

So this was what it felt like to be lost. Her body fit perfectly against his and as she kissed him she felt at peace. Maybe peace wasn't the right word, because the sensation building in her loins was not peaceful. But there was an element of serenity, of certainty…

She wasn't worrying. That was it. She wasn't worrying about how she kissed, if he liked it, what the state of her body was, if he'd like her underthings…she wasn't worrying. She felt no self-consciousness and no need to analyze. When did that ever happen?

It didn't. And of all the people she _should_ have felt those things with, Draco Malfoy was tops…

He turned his head. She turned hers the other way automatically so that their faces molded together, nose astride nose. Oh, he was such a good kisser…he understood that less was more. He didn't use too much tongue; it was just enough to send fluttering tingles through her body each time it grappled with hers. She had a feeling that he would know her moods, too. If she wanted more…he would give it to her…

As if reading her mind, his hand slid lower and dipped suddenly between her thighs. She bit his lip this time, tugging slightly as he circled a gentle fingertip around her slick entrance. His body hummed with a slight chuckle.

"Eager?" he whispered.

She raised an eyebrow. "I was half-dead, too - from worry and guilt."

His finger slipped inside her, slowly and torturously. It felt good, very good, but it wasn't enough. She desperately wanted him to add another finger, even a third, or that fine part of him that was now prodding her abdomen. She wanted him to fill her. Hermione squirmed, agitated, as he lazily explored her wet sheath.

"It will take more than arsenic, anticoagulants, and neurotoxins to kill me…" Draco murmured. He withdrew his hand, streaking her own moisture up her back. Then he caught her shirt and tugged; she lifted herself and let him pull it over her head. Once again he made short work of her bra, reaching around her to unhook it and tossing it aside without even looking at it.

Instantly he cupped her unrestricted breasts in warm, sure hands and lifted his mouth to them. His tongue danced, teasing her nipples into erect peaks. Each swipe of his tongue and firm seal of his lips further inflamed her; she was quite sure that her arousal was saturating her knickers. That had never happened before. Well, except…

She put the brakes on that thought and shivered as his teeth clamped agreeably around one nipple. Unexpectedly, he snuck his hands between them, caught her hips, and lifted. Her knees moved automatically to either side of him. Before she could even catch up with what he was doing, he'd unfastened her shorts and was pressing them impatiently down her thighs.

She struggled out of the shorts, keen to return the favor. She was about to strip off her underwear, as well, when his voice stopped her.

"Stand up, Hermione," he breathed. "I want to look at you."

A thrill of shivery exhilaration swept through her. She leaned down, kissed him once, and eased herself off the bed. Surprisingly, standing before him mostly nude did not evoke much anxiety. His eyes branded over her, hot and insatiable, and she felt unexpectedly powerful. She let her hands travel on her body, tweaking her nipples, and wandering further still. A light rub against the fabric of her knickers lit the nerve endings between her thighs on fire, and she moaned at her own touch.

Draco's breath was coming faster; she could see the rise and fall of his chest. He lifted a hand, gesturing with his index finger. He wanted her to turn around. She did, slowly, sticking her bum out a bit. She knew from a few neck-twisting observations that her rear looked particularly good in the aquamarine boy shorts edged in lace.

By the time she turned the full circle, he had liberated himself from the expensive denim that seemed to have become his signature. To her great amazement, he was touching himself. She nearly fainted with the lasciviousness of it; Draco Malfoy, masturbating, his hand sliding roughly along his thick, pulsing erection, while he looked at her. Thought about her. It made her dizzy.

She hooked her fingers in the waistband of her boy shorts. They slid down her hips, thighs, calves, and she stepped out of them. It was time to make that brief fantasy that had crept up on her at the hospital a reality.

She returned to the bed, tugging his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off. He relinquished his pleasurable grip and hastened to remove his shirt. She was stuck for a moment, staring at him. In that first encounter she had not had the time or the presence of mind to look at him. He was magnificent. His erection strained toward his belly, a proud column of hard masculinity, the head slightly darkened and already weeping a precursory tear.

Impulsively, she leaned down to lick that little bead of desire away. The effect was that of lightning; he gasped, arching slightly, the hand nearest her fisting in the bedclothes. Oh, if that was from one little lick…she couldn't possibly resist seeing and hearing what her whole mouth would do.

She tested it a moment later, grasping his length and guiding it between her lips. In a minute he was trembling; she could feel his manhood pulsing madly against her tongue. In two minutes, words tumbled from his lips.

"Ah…fuck…yes…Hermione…" a soft grunt escaped him, before his voice turned commanding. "Suck harder!"

She pulled back, the dominance in his voice triggering a dangerous desire to toy with him. Never before had sex been competitive; this had gone from romantic to a new thing edged in erotic conquest. It was the same thing she had imagined _so_ well with Lucius…she had no doubt that she had pegged _him_ correctly, even if she had never actually slept with him. Like father…like son…

"What's the magic word?" she asked, smirking.

The look he gave her could have singed the ends of her hair, but he said it.

"Please."

She obliged, resuming and tightening her seal around him. It made her lips and cheeks and jaw ache but he was moaning his wanton approval, his hips rising to press deeper into her mouth. Oh, his sounds…she loved that he was not afraid to express his pleasure because each wave of his low voice was like an electric current wired directly to her womb.

She released him a moment later; his engorged member sprang away from her and he groaned at the sudden absence of the wet, tight heat of her mouth. However, she had no plans of leaving him that way for long. She climbed on top of him, resting her hands on his chest for balance, and gave him a few seconds to recover.

His eyes were fogged, afire, drowned in lust. After a few deep breaths, his hands settled on her hips. He was ready. She raised herself, gripping his sex, and sank down upon him.

They sighed together as she buried him, lock and key, plus and minus. There…there, now she was full…

His hips moved almost of their own accord, an anxious request. She positioned herself, got her legs underneath her, and rose slowly before descending. Each glorious inch of him slid within her, an easy friction. She rode him unhurriedly at first, reveling in the different sensations she could create with very slight adjustments. He was patient for long minutes, his eyes on her, traveling the hills and valleys of her flesh, kissing her everywhere, watching where their bodies joined, where his length, glistening with the juices of her arousal, disappeared…

Ah – there it was, that evasive bundle of nerves! She needed to feel that again, feel his steely thickness grate against it, and once she did she needed it more and more and more. Her pace began to increase. A startled moan wrenched from her when his thumb found her clitoris. It was almost too much, the pleasure from inside and out at the same time, but he didn't relent. She was tightening around him, bliss pooling in their junction.

"Come," he demanded, low and dripping with raw sexual power. "I want to see you come."

"Make me," she dared him. It wouldn't be difficult; she was three-quarters of the way there, but challenging him would only make it better.

His eyes narrowed for a second. Then he brought his thumb to his mouth, licked it, and returned it to that button of pleasure with vengeance. He pressed harder and she nearly screamed. The sensation was so intense that she wasn't sure if it was pleasure or pain or both.

Thirty seconds later she was ready to explode. She had no control over herself anymore. She rode him with abandon, gasping, until her insides became so tight that she could barely move. As she slowed, fearful of squeezing him out, she sensed him shifting. Then he pushed up into her tautness with a hard piston of his hips, their skin slapping together.

That did it. The dam inside her broke. It was like nothing she had ever felt before. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out; air had deserted her body. It had fled in the wake of the seizures of pleasure rolling through her, convulsing around him, crushing everything but carnal delight out of her body. She saw purple spots, felt her entire body thrum with transcendence.

And it didn't stop. It kept happening, tremulous even as she found her breath, even as he dug his heels in and fucked her. _This_ was what she had fantasized about, his hands so tight on her hips that they bruised, the cords in his neck standing out as he arched up to her, his face contorted in pleasure and concentration…

She was literally panting. She felt her breasts jiggle, her flesh quiver as it absorbed the shock of his thrusts. She couldn't believe what this was doing to her. If someone had told her that Draco Malfoy would provide her with the best sex of her life, she would have laughed in their face. Now fate was laughing in hers. And, really, that was all right, because if a joke at her expense led to this…

He was gasping, moaning low in his throat, his eyes closed. Impulsively, she leaned down to kiss him. It turned pornographic, brutal, demanding, both of them moaning into the other's mouth, and he nipped her as his hands shifted to her backside. She tasted blood, saw it on his lips, but it was only a tiny nick that stopped bleeding almost as quickly as it had started.

His neck arched back. She knew already that it was a tell-tale sign of impending orgasm. So was the rise of his voice. With each word he became louder.

"Oh….God….yesss!"

The sibilant plea echoed in her ears. It was nearly a shout. He quaked beneath her, his jaw clenched. She felt him empty, bathing her insides and provoking another curious spasm of her walls. Hermione leaned on him and moaned softly as she rode it out. Aftershocks shook him for a minute and then he sighed and wrapped his arms around her. She noticed for the first time that they were both sweaty.

There was no sound but their breath, strained and mingled.

"Did I…hurt you?" he panted.

She shook her head. Exhaustion was slamming her like an out-of-control bus.

"I bruised you."

"It's ok."

"I didn't--"

"Draco, shut up."

She felt his lips curve into a smile against her temple. She dimly registered him moving, arranging her, and pulling the blanket up before a soporific messenger clasped the hand of her consciousness and pulled her into sleep.

* * *

Lucius locked the door three hours later, feeling a bit soporific himself. Wine buzzed in his head, wine he shouldn't have drunk with a traumatized liver, but if it wasn't that it would be something else and those choices were usually worse. Wine over indiscretion any day.

Oh, but everything was an indiscretion lately. Sleeping with his ex-wife, who was on the verge of remarrying, certainly qualified. In a public hospital, no less – but he knew that the dubious chance of discovery had turned her on as much as him. They hadn't spoken since. What could he say to her, anyway? He had ruined her first marriage well enough, and wouldn't do it a second time, no matter how much he wanted to.

And now, having to exert serious self-control _not_ to sleep with the pretty muggle that fate had tossed into his lap also fell into that category. Emma was a gorgeous woman, a Lempicka-like muse and workaholic single mother that did not even understand her own appeal. She reminded him…

Yes, she reminded him of Hermione. Smart, quick, but always a little uncertain of her own power. The brown curls did not help. He would have liked nothing more than to toss her down and ravage her but that crossed the bridge into relationship territory. He couldn't embark upon that in good faith; she had children. Two children who deserved a father, and when he got his wand back, he was returning to the wizarding world. He had already proven to be a miserable father, anyway.

Bugger.

He loved his son and was happy that he had at last articulated liking for someone. He knew what he had done to Draco. He knew that his activities had pulled the then-teenager into the stuff of his nightmares. The kid was a pile of insecurities, a collection of defense mechanisms – most of which Lucius had put there himself. To crawl out of his shell now, to face his ever-daunting father down and tell him to back the fuck off, was telling.

He just wished it had come with someone else. He liked Hermione, more than he cared to admit. Part of it was conquest, yes, he wanted to know what it was like to topple an idealistic Gryffindor, one of those who had defeated the Dark Lord and defenestrated all his ideals…but otherwise he just genuinely felt…something.

Well, what the hell was 'something'? Draco was not feeling 'something'. It had to be exceptional to evoke his blunt boundaries, to cause him to say that he might be driven to patricide if he lost this girl to him. Draco was not a violent person, but he had been taught the ways of violence. For all the relative calmness that inhabited their lives now, Lucius was not foolish enough to think that his progeny might not one day discover how easy it was to dispose of inconveniences. And choice and circumstance had made him, Lucius Malfoy, a mere inconvenience. At least, for another two years and eight months…

They were asleep. The guestroom looked like a crime scene with clothing substituted for blood. It lay scattered about, carelessly discarded, coordinates on a graph of lovemaking. They, too, looked as if they had been shot, asleep in the positions they had fallen apart in. His son had blood on his lip, and she a small laceration in the mirroring spot.

He had agreed to surrender her and he had meant it. He owed Draco that much. He could entertain himself, reel women in as he pleased, and he was all right with it meaning nothing. Love had come and gone and he knew the world allotted a very small quota of it for rotten men like him. It was not likely to come again. He wasn't sure if he wanted it to. Love was easy to handle with a layer of ice around one's heart; it melted occasionally in the midnight sun, revealed itself only in the worst of times, just enough to renew its existence…

Being caught and censured had laid his chest open and taken a pickaxe to that ice. He had fought it, kicking and screaming and bleeding, at first. He didn't know when exactly it had become all right. Perhaps when he realized he was in danger of losing his wife, whom he had given no reason to stand beside him in the last decade. Then, realizing how stupid it was and what it was costing him, he had taken the pickaxe and driven it into himself.

It didn't matter. The shards of pride, bloody with his ego, didn't matter. She was already gone. Inevitably winter overtook and drove things back into the freezer; so had it been with his heart. Until this…until his escape into anonymity, where no one expected anything of him and he could begin to remember what he really was - if he had ever been anything at all.

He breathed. It still hurt, perhaps moreso because he was half-drunk and emotions tended to escape the mores of control when the bottle was involved. How weak he was, to allow such things to bruise him. Ah, but he had always been weak, even in his armor.

The Dark Lord had known that. What he hadn't known was the swift lethality that would come upon him when he dug an exacting blade into that weakness. Sighting it, peeling back the defenses to wound it, had made Lucius realize that it _was_ there, it would always be there, and the fierce urge to eradicate it catalyzed into something else – the fierce urge to destroy the one who had exposed it.

It was that easy to demolish loyalty with one misstep. The moment Voldemort had threatened his family, _his_, he understood that without the weakness of attachment to them he would be just like his master. He had never wanted that.

He hadn't wanted it, but he still had a hard time understanding what it was to admit to weakness. Wearing it on one's sleeve was so foolish. But he had that final day, moving through a firestorm of climactic war to protect his son and not caring who witnessed it. The eyes upon him in the aftermath were inconsequential, bloodless little punctures in a toughened hide.

Seeing his weakness made them back away from it. They did not forgive and they did not forget, but they understood. So that was why he wasn't a vegetable, his questionable soul in the gut of a dementor; he was merely neutralized, to suffer and rage in the horror of self-discovery.

And it was suffering. He was no Job; he deserved it. He deserved it for not facing it sooner, for locking his demons away, for being too afraid to reveal that he had anything to suffer over. It was necessary. It was survival. But it was an illusion, one that had come crashing down like a house of cards.

Oh, he had to stop. He had to _stop_. Ginny Weasley's face was dancing on the edge of his consciousness. His heart was throbbing against its frosty cage. He felt like a man who had fallen through thin ice and couldn't find a way out, a man trapped beneath a sheath of cold, clear finality, drowning…

"Father?" Draco was sitting up in the bed, his chest bare and the blanket at his waist. He looked tired and bewildered, unsure if he was awake or dreaming. "Is everything…?"

Lucius backed away and closed the door, struggling for casual numbness. He didn't understand what he was feeling. It had snuck up on him like a common cold, filling his head with pestilence.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. He wanted to _die_.

"Father!" Draco's footsteps were hurried and he caught up with his sire's hasty retreat. He had thrown on his boxers and the polo shirt that had landed on the lamp.

"Go…back," he managed, astounded at how difficult it was to force coherent words out. Draco was swimming in his eyes.

"No. There's something wrong with you." His son's face was pale, fearful. "Tell me what it is."

He shook his head, leaning on a chair for support.

"It's Hermione," Draco said. "You love her."

He shook his head again. No, that wasn't it.

"I'm not stupid!" Draco objected. "I've only ever seen you like this when…" he stopped and swallowed, perhaps fearing what his words would do, "when Mum left."

Lucius said nothing. The words lashed him like a whip, a three-syllable synopsis of his failure.

"You love her!" his son accused, angry. "Why did you tell me I could have her if you _love her_?"

"I don't!"

"Don't lie to me." Draco's voice was quietly toxic.

That broke him. It shattered him, the way a frozen thing shattered when thrown to the ground. He was in a million pieces.

"I'm not lying. I'm not. I don't…" He was eroded to grains of sand. His sense was leaving him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Forgive me."

Draco was caught severely off guard. So, too, was Lucius, unprepared for the hot cascade of grief. It drove him to his knees and he thought he was clenching the front of his son's shirt, crying into it, whispering pleas for forgiveness. He thought so, but he wasn't sure; the world had ceased to be comprehensible and it spun around him and he spun around himself and everything was pain.

"Father. Father!" Draco was trying to pry his hands away, his voice frightened. "Please, I forgive you!"

* * *

Draco's panicked voice woke her. Her instantaneous thought was that it was happening again - Skeeter and her henchman were back, trying to finish the job. She struggled into her shorts and bra, nearly tripping and killing herself twice. That was enough; death didn't wait for modesty.

She grabbed her wand and ran down the hallway. She stopped so abruptly that her feet hurt. The stream of her consciousness wondered if it was possible to get rug burns on the soles of one's feet. Inane thoughts aside, there was no intruder for her to hex. Only Draco and Lucius were in front of her, silhouetted in the light of the half-moon.

Draco was petrified, cradling the trembling form of his father against his chest. Her mind jumped to a thousand conclusions: someone had gotten him while he was out, he was dying, leaving the world in his son's arms. But there was no blood…no outward damage, but there must have been pain, for only the most extreme pain could have driven him to tears. Whether the pain was physical or psychological, she couldn't say.

"Father," Draco pleaded, "please, you mustn't do this…there is nothing to forgive."

She ached to go to them. Draco didn't know what to do. From his panic she could deduce that emotions were not freely shown in his circles, and for his formidable father, a man who had lived most of his life with about as much outward sentiment as a rock, to be reduced to tears…

She was about to move when she sensed someone behind her. She whirled, wand at the ready, but could only blink in confusion when the tall form of Kingsley Shacklebolt filled her vision. The Minister of Magic and Head of Auror Training was suddenly, inexplicably…there.

Hermione had always liked him. He had a calm sternness about him and he was a man completely unimpacted by the melodrama of politics. There was a saying that the best wielders of power were those who had never aspired to wield it; it bore truth in Kingsley. Though his appointment as Minister had been temporary at the end of the war, the people liked him so much that the next election made it official.

Kingsley also had an uncanny ability to walk into a strange situation and take it utterly in stride. So, Hermione standing in the elder Malfoy's apartment in her bra while the two men fell to pieces behind her registered in his mind and nothing more. He didn't feel the need to make comments.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered. She was suddenly protective of them, feeling the insult to their privacy as keenly as if it was her own. Shacklebolt turned and retreated to the dining room. Hermione followed, glad to lend them space and time without prying eyes. The picture of eighteen-year-old Rita Skeeter was still lying on the table.

"The healers and aurors are monitoring him, especially in light of recent events," Kingsley said quietly. "I was speaking to the auror on-call when his vital signs began to fluctuate. He was having heart palpitations and his temperature rose. Those can be tell-tale signs of Cruciatus, so I decided to come and check."

"Well, it's not Cruciatus," she replied, feeling shaky.

Shacklebolt's eyebrows rose. "I would not be so sure of that."

And he was right. She was beginning to understand. It wasn't a curse, not some external action that caused him pain. It was a battle inside his mind, his psyche, a consuming blight of guilt and other things she could only imagine. Lucius was cruciating himself internally, making himself sick with all the things he _ought_ to have felt and done. All the things he _had_ felt and then suppressed.

She had been guilty of the same thing after the war. The mind was an amazing entity, able to endure untold horrors and maintain its composure. But sooner or later those delayed fears caught up and ambushed you. Sooner or later, the breakdown came. It had at last come for the indomitable Lucius Malfoy.

"I trust him to your care," Kingsley said softly.

She felt like crying. "But what can we do for him?"

"In all probability," the dark-skinned man said, pausing at the door, "nothing."

* * *

September 23

The sun shone brightly over Milan, Italy, but like anywhere else, it had places the sun never reached. The blonde witch stood in one of these places, looking too fragile to have overpowered the man that lay quivering at her feet. Only that man and a few others knew better.

"Where's Scattori?" she demanded for the fifth time, her voice a pretty hiss.

"Fuck you, lady," he spat.

"You will tell me where he is or I'll continue to Cruciate you until your eyes melt out of your skull."

"I'd like to see you try."

Her eyes flashed. "_Cruc__--"_

"All right, you psychotic bitch!" the man shouted, worn down. "Scattori has a summer home in Capri! That's where he is!"

She leaned close. For such a slender, delicate-looking woman, she could pour on the intimidation. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Get up," she commanded. He did as she said, grumbling under his breath. She held his wand in front of her and abruptly dropped it to the floor. With one elegant foot clad in Christian Louboutin, she broke the wand as if she was stomping out nothing more than a cigarette.

"What the hell was that for?" he shouted. "I told you what you wanted to know!"

"You've heard the phrase 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'?" she asked, her eyes cold and her voice colder.

"I have," he said apprehensively.

"Scattori tried to kill my son and the man that gave him to me." She pointed her wand, a demure thing of ash and dragon heartstring, and her voice and posture flirted with absolute zero. "Consider me scorned."

He closed his eyes, thinking he was about to die. However, she said no more, and when he opened his eyes the fearsome woman was gone. He was, he reflected, as good as dead anyway. He had betrayed the Family. They would find him, whatever he did, wherever he went, and quickly without a wand…

It was better to die. In death, there was no shame. He thought the pretty witch would give it to him; so frosty were her eyes, and so painful her curses. But he had misread her. Only Scattori earned her death wish.

Poor thing; in pursuing him, she earned his…


	11. Chapter 10

Author's Note: In this installment, we find out part of the back story for Rita and Ethan, and Harry finds out something else…

Responses:

Earwen Telrunya: I'm glad I've converted you. Thanks for the recs to your friends! I'm not a Naruto reader/watcher, so didn't get most of your ships, but I always respect authors that do great things for more unconventional or uncommon ships. As for the pairing, well, it's pretty much cemented at this point but Lucius isn't going anywhere. ;)

sarabara, loveismagic, dracoshott: Thank you! Glad you're enjoying the story.

silverlovedragoness: Yup, this story is definitely plot heavy and has a lot of twists and turns to deal with. I try to mix the emotions in to make it suspenseful and it seems like it's working! I should make it known that I'm a grammar and proofreading nazi; I do occasionally bend sentence structure for my own personal style, but otherwise I try very hard to not destroy the English language, hehe.

mrs.twizzler: Yeah, Lucius is having a rough day. Considering it a good sign, though, that he is feeling remorse and guilt. He'll be okay. :)

loveangelli: Some people have expressed a desire for a triad fic...tempting, but my muse does what she wants and she wanted to make this a Dramione fic. However, I love Lucius, so there will be no shortage of him. Incidentally I am working on a triad fic with Hermione, Draco, and Lucius...perhaps I'll post it soon since so many people seem to want to see that! Thanks for reading.

* * *

September 12

Lucius's body had raged with a high fever for two days, he'd laid in bed for the next, and the two after that gave them a manic man, one who would not sleep or eat or acknowledge that he had to. He finally succumbed fifty sleep-deprived hours later, hours in which neither she nor Draco nor anyone else who came and went knew what he was doing in his study. He didn't care if people walked in and out, didn't try to prevent them from seeing the papers splayed out on the desk in front of him, but none of them were courageous enough to actually look. He was too intense in that state; even being in the room with him was enough to raise one's blood pressure. And in light of that, the knowledge of what he so zealously slaved over might prove to be too much.

Hermione was perched on the couch watching the muggle news and nibbling cereal out of the box. She had spent the night in the guestroom with Draco, who was still asleep. Poor Draco was worn down by worry; seeing his father in such a precarious state had been a nasty shock and even if he did not say it out loud, he felt like it was his fault. She was going to let him sleep as long as he wanted. Lucius had other plans.

He emerged, freshly showered and looking like a whole person for the first time in five days. He was a little thinner from not eating but the haunted look was gone from his eyes. He proved his wellness a moment later, when he swiped the cereal box from her as he walked by and proceeded to help himself.

"Someone's feeling better," she said, mildly annoyed.

He ignored her and picked a stray cheerio out of the couch. It didn't pass his inspection; he tossed it to Oberon, who gobbled it up as if it was filet mignon.

"I figured it out," he said at length.

Hermione tore her eyes from news of a mudslide in Honduras. "Figured what out?"

"Skeeter."

She turned, contemplating him. Aside from the dark bruises of exhaustion beneath his eyes, he looked himself. His eyes were clear and quick, his pale hair combed and air-drying, and he wore plain white t-shirt and black sweats with an Armani logo on them. _Of course,_ she thought wryly, _his lounge pants are worth more than my entire wardrobe._

"That's it, then?" she asked softly.

"What's what?"

"You know what I mean."

For a moment he didn't know what to say. It was odd to see him that way, struggling for words, groping for meaning and clarity. It was something he simply didn't do.

"I cannot guarantee that that's it for the rest of my life," he said. "But for now…" his hand fell to Oberon's head, seeking the dog's soft, unprejudiced comfort, "for now, I am done."

She nodded. No more would be said of it; she knew Lucius wouldn't speak of what he had thought or felt or seen. There were things inside him, things she couldn't even hazard a guess at, and even if she would never know exactly what they were, the fact that they existed changed him. She had seen. She knew. And he knew that she knew and he was…comfortable. This truly was a different man.

Shacklebolt had commented upon it, too. He had stopped by that second day, a day where Lucius raged and moaned, febrile and incoherent. He had brought a healer to make sure it wasn't some infection from his time in St. Mungo's; such occurrences were rare but not unheard of. As they suspected the only infection was that of his soul.

"That's a man," Kingsley had said, "who has finally gone from feeling remorse at being caught to feeling remorse for ever doing the things that required the catching." And he had looked amazed, happy, and sympathetic while he said it.

"Was that what you were doing in the study?" she asked, pushing Kingsley's discourse out of her mind for the time being. "Figuring out Skeeter?"

He shook his head. "I did that this morning, lying in bed."

"Then what was it?"

The corners of his mouth lifted in a strange smile that seemed more sad than happy. "That is for Ginny Weasley to know, and everyone else…_never_ to find out."

* * *

Harry contemplated the mail with a sigh. The stack was larger than usual since his transfer to Puddlemere United. The rented box was nearly exploding. Oh, there was a howler from a Caerphilly fan…it triggered, shouting obscenities at him in Welsh, most of which he understood, and the others in the post station stared at him. Until they figured out who he was; then they smiled.

That was the only howler today. That was a good sign. Leaving the shreds of the angry letter on the floor, Harry dumped the mail into a large messenger bag slung over his shoulder and apparated.

Ginny was still in her underwear. He _loved_ when she deemed it necessary to walk around the flat in her bra and panties. He never got tired of her. Today she had donned a particularly alluring thing, something she referred to as a balconette, possibly because it pushed her breasts up and suspended them like some terribly tantalizing shelf. It was a saturated amethyst color, and the black panties that sat low on her hips had matching ribbons that held them on. She had something on her mind, clearly, because with one tug of those ribbons she'd be revealed in all her glory. She played her cards well, this Ginny Weasley.

He thought to himself, as he snuck up behind her and pressed a hand to her toned stomach, that he was going to have to make her Mrs. Potter soon. Yes, soon…he toyed with the end of one ribbon, rubbing the satin between his fingers. If he won the upcoming exhibition match against the Sofia Slaughterers, Viktor Krum's Bulgarian side, he'd propose to her right there on the pitch. If not…well, that wasn't really a consideration, was it? With the motivation of the love of his life consenting to marry him, there was no way he'd lose.

"What was in the mail?" Ginny asked. He could hear the smile in her voice.

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing that is more important than me removing these silly garments and doing vulgar things to you."

Ginny giggled. "They're not vulgar."

"Okay," he agreed, sweeping her hair aside and kissing her neck, "maybe just naughty, then."

* * *

Lucius looked down upon his sleeping son for the second time in a week. This time he wasn't in the endorphin-soused somnolence that followed intimacy. His sleep was lighter, more troubled; he reached out to shake his strong shoulder and Draco's eyes opened.

He appeared perplexed at first. Then he stretched, possibly to give himself time to try to understand the fact that his father was sitting on the edge of the bed and gently waking him. That had rarely happened, even in his youth. Lucius regretted it like he regretted many things, lately.

"You're looking better today," Draco commented, covering his awkwardness by sitting up and resting his elbows on his knees.

Lucius nodded. "I am feeling much better." Draco's eyes watched him as he moved backwards, raising his legs and moving toward the middle of the bed. He sat Indian-style, facing his son. "You need to know…" he frowned and chewed his lower lip, but only for the briefest of seconds, "that it wasn't about her. It wasn't about Hermione. I _like_ her, but I do not love her, and as such, she is yours."

"Then why did you become so upset at the mention of her?" Draco asked softly. "And you were looking at us, knowing what we did…"

"I was not upset at the mention of her," he said, looking down at his hands twined in his lap. "I was upset by your reaction - by your belief that I was lying to you."

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but Lucius cut him off.

"I have been miserable at keeping promises, absolutely miserable. I lied to you for your entire life, led you into circumstances you never would have chosen for yourself, and have therefore given you no reason to trust me. But I never felt the full brunt of that until that moment."

"Father--"

"Draco, for all the dishonesty I've perpetrated on you, I want you to know that I would _never_ steal the woman you loved from you." A slightly pained expression settled on his face. "Because I have had it done to me."

Draco's eyes widened. "Are you saying…Mum…?"

Lucius nodded. "Giacomo Cannavare snatched her right out from under me. It is my fault for being too distracted to notice."

Draco blinked and shook his head. "I…she told me she met him _after_ the divorce."

"Do not judge her," Lucius was quick to say. "I gave her even fewer reasons to care for me than you."

"He's a shit, Dad," Draco said. "Half the man you are."

Lucius looked up sharply, as surprised by the sentiment as he was to the rare use of the less formal parental title. "Why do you say that?" His eyes narrowed murderously. "He has not done anything to her, has he? If he has, I will be in Milan so fast that the aurors won't catch me until after I've killed him," he growled.

"Don't even think about it," Draco warned, not doubting his father's assertion for a minute. "He hasn't done anything to hurt her, but he treats her like she's stupid."

Lucius snorted. "He is the stupid one if he thinks her silly and harmless. I hope she is cleaning him out."

Draco shrugged but smiled. In all likelihood, she was.

"Anyway," Lucius continued, "I mean it. She is yours, yours alone." He reached into his pocket for something which turned out to be a Swiss Army knife. He opened one of the short blades and held it over the palm of his hand.

"What are you doing?" Draco asked with wide eyes, alarmed.

"A blood oath." He pressed the blade into his skin, drawing a thin slash of blood. "So you will know how serious I am."

"I believe you, Dad."

"What conditions do you want on the oath?" Lucius asked, ignoring him.

"None. There isn't going to be an oath."

"I need you to trust me, Draco."

"I do." He took the knife from his father's hand. He then reached for his wand and with a quick spell, the cut healed. "No more of this."

"All right," Lucius said after a long while, his voice distant and muted. "No more."

* * *

He'd left Ginny wrapped in a blanket on the living room floor, which was where they'd succumbed to temptation. When he came back with two glasses of water, she had begun to go through the bag of mail.

"It's like I don't even exist," she mock-grumbled, tossing letter after letter into what was presumably his stack. He thought she was quite sexy, sorting mail in the buff. "Wait," she amended, pulling out a particularly thick stack of parchment, "I stand corrected."

"Did someone write you a novel?" Harry asked, lowering himself to the floor and insinuating himself into the blanket with her. The "letter" must have been thirty pages long, at least.

"Seems that way," she nodded, breaking the seal. He looked over her shoulder; she'd tell him to bugger off if she wanted privacy, she'd never been afraid to do that. But when she unfolded the papers, they were empty.

"Someone sent you a bunch of blank paper?" Harry asked, confused.

"Blank?" her eyes darted up to him. "Harry, they're not blank."

"I don't see anything written."

"The entire page is full."

Harry frowned. "Who is it from?"

For a moment she shuffled pages. Then, arriving at what was evidently the last one, her eyes widened in surprise. "Lucius Malfoy."

"What's Malfoy doing writing you?" he nearly snarled. It was one thing for Malfoy to write Harry a letter after their confrontation, during which so little had been said. But why on in the world would he be corresponding with Ginny? And how had he made it so that only she could see the words?

Ginny chewed her lip. Her blue-green eyes had taken on a troubled expression. She put the pages back in order and set the stack down. "Harry…I'm going to tell you something…and you have to promise me…that you won't go ballistic."

That made his gut sink. Anything Ginny had to say that she thought would make him ballistic could not be good. He steeled himself. Please, Merlin, please, Malfoy could not have seduced her; Harry hadn't objected to her going to St. Mungo's because it was for Hermione, not them, but so help him, if Malfoy had…

"That face is not making me want to tell you, Harry," she said gently.

"It's just…it's never anything good when there is a Malfoy involved," he said, attempting to find some kind of center.

"You promise me right now that you won't go and hurt anybody," Ginny demanded.

"I promise," Harry returned grudgingly. This was sounding worse and worse and she hadn't even _said_ anything yet.

His girlfriend, the love of his life, took a deep breath. "I'll hold you to it. Now…listen."

He nodded.

"Do you remember when you found me in the Chamber of Secrets?"

He nodded again.

"Did you notice anything…off?"

Harry looked at her incredulously. "Well, aside from the giant basilisk, you being nearly dead, and the teenaged incarnation of Lord Voldemort, no."

Her lips twitched. "About me, Harry. About the way I looked."

He shook his head. "You were lying on the ground and not moving. You were so pale. I thought you were dead. I was terrified."

"What about my clothes?"

"Ginny, I wasn't looking at--" he stopped abruptly. Horror flashed through his emerald eyes. "Oh, no. No, no, no. You're not saying…?"

She nodded, blinking back tears. "Right before you came. He had sucked enough life out of me that he was solid. He raped me." She swallowed. "I guess I was the only one who noticed that my buttons were done wrong and my skirt was on backwards."

Agony broadsided him and made his eyes well up. He had thought he was done with this, the terrible guilt of people being hurt by Voldemort because of him, but apparently not. _He_ still cropped up. _He_ still ruined lives.

"Oh, Ginny. Oh, Gin. I was just so glad to have gotten you out of there. I didn't…" he breathed raggedly, trying to process it. Tears dripped down his face and he reached out to touch hers. "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell Madame Pomfrey?" he whispered.

"She knew. I asked her not to tell anyone. She said she was there if I needed to talk, and I did go once or twice, but really…I just wanted to forget about it."

"I wish I could go back and kill him all over again!" Harry exclaimed, swiping angrily at his tears. "I'd do it very painfully this time…"

She shook her head. "It's all right, Harry. I'm okay with it now. For a long time I wasn't, but…" Ginny took a deep breath, "then I confronted Malfoy."

Ah. This was why she'd made him promise not to hurt anyone. Because Malfoy had started the entire chain of events. He had slipped her that diary. He had given that malicious horcrux access to Ginny. He had made it so that it could all happen. And Harry was usually a man of his word, but not this time. Not. This. Time.

He began to struggle to his feet, but her grip and the tightly wrapped blanket obstructed him.

"_No_, Harry. You will stay here and listen to me and you won't hurt him."

"You're right. I won't hurt him, I'll _kill_ him!" Still, he let her hands subdue him. He had not heard the full story yet.

"When I heard about the fiasco with Hermione I was suspicious. I hated him. I didn't want her anywhere near him. I made her bring me to his flat. I wanted to kill him, Harry. I wanted to pull out my wand and use the Killing Curse."

That shut him up. Ginny had a temper, but she was not a killer.

"I went in there with a chip on my shoulder and I pushed him until I got the response I wanted. I was ready to do it. Hermione wouldn't have been able to stop me."

"Why didn't you?" he asked. Malfoy deserved it.

"Because he looked like he wanted to kill _himself_ when I told him what Riddle did." She sighed, resting her cheek on his chest. "And then he got on his knees and apologized. He nearly cried, Harry."

That didn't sway him. "He'll do anything to get out of trouble, Ginny, you know that!"

"It was real. I could see in his eyes that it was real. He didn't know what the diary was. He didn't know that it contained a piece of the Dark Lord." She paused. "He said that if he had known, he would never have given it to me…and I believe him."

"Ginny…" There was so much doubt in that one word.

"You've seen for yourself." She looked into his eyes, peaceful in spite of the things she was talking about. "He's changed."

Harry thought about him. Yes, it was obvious that Malfoy Sr. had changed, and Malfoy Jr. as well. But so much that he could be forgiven? He struggled out of her grasp and groped for his clothes. She watched him, her eyes sad.

"This is the only time I will ever break a promise to you, Ginny," he vowed. "I love you."

* * *

They at last managed to be in the same place at the same time. Draco had rather shamelessly pulled her into the shower with him, and she thought her late-July fantasy might come true with the minor substitution of son for father, but he was too tired and too wrapped up in his thoughts to pay her that kind of attention. Oh, his eyes were on her, that was certain, but the week he'd had was the kind that tended to subdue the libido. She was glad; it still seemed strange to be so intimate with him at all, let alone in his father's flat while Lucius was actually present. Call it a holdover from her teenaged years…

Lucius truly didn't give a damn what they did, aside from his two rules and the obvious expectation that they not be stupid enough to become pregnant; she found it absolutely amazing and a little confusing. It didn't matter that she was nearly twenty-five – _her_ father would have made any significant male other sleep on the couch. Though that might just be a double-standard at work…if Lucius had a daughter instead of a son, there was no telling how he'd behave.

They emerged to find the dining room table covered in photographs, newspapers, and other documents. Lucius was standing over it all, frowning thoughtfully.

"Are we ready, then?" he said after they shuffled up to the table.

"This looks complicated," Draco sighed. "Is that a birth certificate? How did you get that?"

Lucius shrugged, but looked decidedly wicked. "I have my ways."

An image of Lucius seducing and/or bribing librarians popped into her head. She shouldn't smile – that was probably exactly what he had done. The smile came anyway.

"So," Draco read the birth certificate, "Rita Medea Mancini, born the 29th of February, 1960. A leap year baby."

"Medea is right," Hermione snorted. "That woman would kill her own children."

"Does she have any?" Draco asked.

Lucius shook his head. "But she is married. And that's where things become interesting." He leaned over and picked up a faded, pink-tinted newspaper. "Cast a translation spell, and you'll begin to understand."

Hermione and Draco reached for the paper at the same time. They both hesitated in midair, then withdrew, then reached forward again. Hermione felt herself blush for no good reason and dropped her hand; with a dirty look at his father, who was doing a bad job of suppressing a smirk, Draco finally took the paper.

"It's in Italian…" his eyes scanned, picking out a few words that he knew from spending time with his mother in Milan. "November 19, 1934. _Translatio__._" The Italian words shimmered and rearranged themselves into English. It was clear that it was a wizarding newspaper; ads for wands, potions, and new state-of-the-art cornhusk brooms were scattered across the page. "Mafia war shuts down Adriatica Alley," he read. "Adriatica Alley – that's the wizarding high street in Milan."

Lucius nodded.

"Wait a minute," Hermione said, her mind catching up with the words. "There's a wizard Mafia?"

"Of course," Draco answered. "Is there a _muggle_ Mafia?"

"Yes," Lucius answered for her. "Haven't I forced you to watch The Godfather?"

"No."

"Goodfellas?"

"No."

"The Sopranos?"

"No," Draco negated patiently.

"Then I have been remiss." He chuckled. "And my waste management jokes have been falling on deaf ears."

Hermione stared at him in wonder. Lucius _would_ watch mob shows. He probably had more in common with Tony Soprano than he cared to admit. Except that he was far better looking and wouldn't be caught dead in the company of people with nicknames like Paulie Walnuts. Not that she knew anything about the show. Of course not.

"So the Mafia is active in Italy. Big surprise," Draco said.

"Keep reading."

Draco took a breath before continuing. "The battle for dominance between the Mancini and Scattori crime families continued today when Benedetto Mancini, brother of patriarch Melchiorre, was murdered in broad daylight while shopping at Furio's Famous Outfitters. Instant panic broke out…" Draco skimmed ahead, his grey eyes devouring the words. "The perpetrator was never caught, though witnesses claim to have seen Ulisse Scattori fleeing the scene."

"Skeeter's a Mafia princess," Hermione breathed. "Unbelievable."

"Correct." Lucius dug up two more pieces of parchment. "It gets better." He glanced at them both reproachfully. "You had better appreciate this, because you have _no_ idea of the lengths I had to go to in order to obtain these."

"Do we _want_ to know?" Draco muttered.

Hermione took them carefully from Lucius's outstretched hands. She couldn't help but feel that she was in a War Room, plotting for a war that was much bigger than her. She now held two family trees, one for the Scattoris, and one for the Mancinis. There was Melchiorre Mancini at the top, along with his four siblings: Benedetto, Flavio, Orfeo, and Octavia. On the opposite table there was Prospero Scattori. He had one brother, the aforementioned Ulisse.

"Follow me, now," Lucius said. "Rita's grandfather is this Melchiorre character. Her parents are Malvolio Mancini and Eufemia Alessi. They had Rita in 1960 and her sister Rosa in '62."

"Ugh," Hermione grimaced. "There's two of them?"

"It seems that way. Now, direct your attention to the other tree. In particular, Gaetano Scattori."

"Born in 1960 – same year as Rita," Draco noted.

"Yes. And that's not all they have in common."

"My head is beginning to hurt."

Lucius gave his son a look. "You've dealt with worse, but I'll make it easy. Rita Mancini and Gaetano Scattori were married in 1979."

"Married? But they're from warring families," Hermione protested. "That would result in a bloodbath."

"Up until that point, it _was_ a bloodbath." Lucius dug up more pink newspapers. "1935, Ulisse Scattori seizes control, and was by all reports an unstable drunk and a devil incarnate. No one on either side liked him. 1937, he's murdered by his own brother, Prospero, who then takes control. 1941 – Melchiorre orchestrates a coup and the Mancinis come to power – but Prospero lives through it. 1944, Melchiorre dies under suspicious circumstances. His brother Flavio is suspected of the murder, of wanting the power for himself. It doesn't work – he's murdered by the other brother, Orfeo, and the internal conflict weakens them. The Scattoris take over again. 1954, Prospero dies. His son Saturnino takes over, the Scattoris maintain control. A decade of relative peace goes by, during which everyone on all sides reproduces…" Lucius glanced at a list he'd made, "twenty-nine children, counting both families, are born from 1925 to 1965, twenty of them from '54 to '65."

"How many of _them_ are still alive?" Draco mused.

"Eight. On the Mancini side, Rita, her sister Rosa, and cousins Desiderio, Innocenzo, Luca, and Providenza. On the Scattori side, Lorenzo and Gaetano."

Hermione's mouth fell open. Of course he would know the answer – but only _eight_ of them? Eight out of twenty-nine? It really had been a bloodbath.

"What happened in 1965?" she asked, not sure she wanted to know.

"Tacito Mancini, then eighteen, accidentally killed Renata Scattori in an attempt to rape her. He charmed the restraints too tightly and she suffocated before he could lay a finger on her. She was fourteen."

Hermione realized that both she and Draco were leaning forward, mouths open. This was unreal; how could these kinds of things go on entirely under the radar? True, it had been before her time and in a different country, but she felt like she ought to have heard of it before. This was a major, major crime rivalry. From the looks of the old Milan newspapers, it had dominated the wizarding culture of Northern Italy for decades.

"That must have set it off all over again," she shook her head.

"Yes. Fifteen years of intermittent warfare ensued. Fully two-thirds of Milan's wizard population migrated elsewhere because of it."

Draco exhaled, incredulous. "That explains why there are so few magical folk there. The Mancinis and Scattoris are probably the only ones left."

Lucius nodded gravely. "Yes, and those loyal to them."

A flash of alarm moved across Draco's face. "Cannavare?"

"I checked. Nothing." Lucius blew out a sigh. "Either he has no loyalties, or he hides them well."

"We have to owl Mum."

"Already did."

Once again, it took Hermione a moment to catch up. "Wait…your Mum lives in Milan now?"

Draco nodded.

"Oh, Merlin, we have to get her out of there."

"She is a very capable witch," Lucius said. "I have given her the information and indicated our desire for her to leave, but she'll do what she wants."

"And you're okay with that?" Hermione pressed.

"To a point," he responded curtly.

She relaxed. In those three words, she understood that Lucius still cared for his ex-wife and if pushed far enough, he would go retrieve her whether she liked it or not. Hermione smiled.

"Anyhow," Lucius elaborated, "you can probably guess what Rita's marriage to Gaetano was supposed to do."

"A cease-fire," Draco stated immediately. "A treaty, by joining the two families."

"Exactly."

"Did it work?" Hermione asked, rapt with interest.

"Swimmingly, for two years," Lucius replied. He indicated three photographs on the right corner of the table. In spite of the fact that at eighteen, Rita had not yet begun to own her beauty, it was in full evidence in her wedding photos one year later. The curls were tamed, the glasses gone, and the familiar confidence simmered behind her eyes. She recognized Gaetano, as well – he was Ethan, the brown-haired paparazzo, though age had obviously beaten some of the youthful vigor out of him. Not so much with Rita; she had that kind of face that never looked old, the lucky bitch.

"Then what?" Draco questioned.

"Anybody's guess," Lucius said. "All I can gather is that in the summer of 1981, there was some kind of falling-out and Rita and Gaetano were forced to flee. The families were then jointly taken over by Lorenzo Scattori and Desiderio Mancini."

"They escaped to England and changed their name," Hermione nodded as things fell into place. "From Scattori to Skeeter."

"And Gaetano started to go by Ethan. I guess Rita was too proud to give up _her _name." Draco rolled his eyes.

"Yes. I've been able to uncover that Ethan and Rita Skeeter entered the United Kingdom on 4 November 1981. There are no employment records for Ethan, but Rita worked for two newspapers the following year, both of which fired her for fabricating stories."

"Shocking," Hermione muttered. "With that track record, how could she have gotten the job at Witch Weekly?"

Lucius's eyes flickered back and forth between Hermione and his son. "You have Harry Potter to thank for that."

"What?!" they exclaimed as one.

"August 1, 1983. By some stroke of fate, Skeeter was freelancing one village over from Godric's Hollow. She saw the Dark Mark in the sky, knew it would make her career if she got there first…and she did. Rita Skeeter was the first reporter on the scene of the Potters' murder. She coined the term 'Boy Who Lived'."

Hermione was about to open her mouth, to voice her dismay that Skeeter's career had been made by Harry's misfortune, and _Merlin_, did Harry know that? – when Lucius's posture changed very subtly. She recognized the slight stiffening, the drawing up of his spine – someone else was present. Both she and Draco turned and found themselves faced with the very person they had been discussing.

"Did someone call for me?" Harry said. But there was no humor in his voice, and Hermione had not seen him look so deadly since the fall of Voldemort.

* * *

Author's Note 2.0: Yes, the mob. Yes, I actually sat and drew out family trees and timelines for the Mancinis and Scattoris. Choosing all the names was so much fun! I know it was probably a bit confusing for some…feel free to ask questions and I will respond at the start of next chapter. A quick note about Rita's middle name, Medea. Medea was a figure in Greek mythology who did all sorts of interesting things, including leaving her children to die (or in some versions, actually killing them herself), hence Hermione's comment. That is all, R&R!


	12. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Just some responses...

EarwenTelrunya: Aw, I thank you for the effort, anyhow. I know last chapter was a bit information-heavy, but it was very important for where the story is going. I'm curious; how would you have had Ginny tell Harry about what happened to her?

Cyranothe2nd: Yup, it's been in the cards for a while, but both men might surprise you.

CoCo82: Wow! You might be the most prolific reviewer I've ever had. Thanks! Yes, you're not the only one that isn't all that happy about the way the pairings are turning out. However, I think I've probably said before that my muse does as she pleases...and that I can't make everyone happy. I just hope the plot is good enough to keep people reading in spite of it. One of my goals is usually to introduce people to different pairings than they usually read...and as for Harry, I have tried to make him a decent guy in this fic. At the moment he's just irrationally angry at what happened to Ginny and looking for someone to blame, and Voldy isn't there. Lucius is the next available scapegoat. I promise you he'll make it through this scrape. :) Oh yeah, and I'm really missing both FW and Dr. Who now that one is cancelled and the other's season is over! Maybe I should start watching Torchwood? I'm also awaiting Lily Allen's next album and hoping it will be as great as Alright, Still. I got it back in January and I have to say, listening to it was partially responsible for the synthesis of this fic. It was all I was listening to when I wrote the first few chapters. **If people haven't heard Lily Allen, go download her album immediately! **Her songs are just wickedly clever and some of her lyrics are hilarious.

mrs.twizzler: I know all the mob information was a bit complex and confusing, because I wouldn't even be able to keep it straight if I hadn't drawn it out myself! I've been thinking about creating a family tree so people could follow it more clearly. Would that help? You'll find out if Harry keeps his promise or not right now. :) Thanks for reviewing.

embirlily: Thank you. I hope you continue reading. :)

BelhavenOnTap: The first time I saw your penname, I thought it said BelhavenOnTOP. Heh. Dirty mind, what can I say. I'm glad you like my Lucius and Draco. I hope you enjoy this chapter and those to come.

dracoshott28: Yup, I was scared, too, before I figured out what I was going to write! Hehe. Here's your update.

Tears of Ebon-Grey: Yes, the addition of the mob makes everything more interesting, I think. Thanks for the review. :)

abyssgirl: I responded to you individually, but for the sake of everyone else: abyss had asked about the use of the name Jocasta and why I would use a Greek name for an Italian character. A valid question, since Jocasta was the name of Oedipus' mother and eventual wife in the Oedipus plays by Sophocles. In spite of that, the name is actually Italian, meaning 'light hearted'. I didn't pick it to make any reference to Oedipus. I just liked the name and it's not one you see every day.

Boofanyrox: I'm glad you liked my little joke. I was burning to put that into a story. Mission accomplished!

loveangelli: Yup, the mob. Another one of those pesky ideas from the muse. You'll see Rita's mob potential soon (but she's totally a slippery bitch already!). The LM/HG/DM story is in the works, first chapter should be posted in a few days.

ReineMauvaise: Yeah, Harry's not at his best in the last chapter and this one. However, he will be redeemed.

* * *

September 12

"Whoa, Potter," Draco was the first to speak, "what's this about?"

"Ginny told you," Hermione breathed.

"Told him what?"

"Yeah, Ginny told me," Harry spat. "Were you planning on keeping it to yourself?"

"It is Miss Weasley's story to tell," Lucius spoke up. "Not Hermione's."

"Oh, we're on a first name basis now, are we, _Lucius_?"

Lucius straightened up fully, exuding control. "Some of us, yes, _Harry_."

Harry turned to Hermione, eyes blazing. "You've spent too much time in the company of this family. You need to leave."

An answering blaze lit in Hermione's eyes. She had never responded well to irrational men telling her what to do; somehow Harry's harsh command was the most arrogant one she'd ever received. There was no respect in it, none at all, so it was a mark of just how angry he was. Still, she didn't deserve it. Not from Harry Potter, who she'd supported tirelessly for the thirteen years she'd known him – and that wasn't always an easy thing to do.

"I'm not going anywhere, Harry," she returned stubbornly. "You're not thinking clearly. If I go, you'll do things that you regret."

"I'll do them, but I guarantee that I won't regret them," he said darkly.

"Potter, I think you're forgetting that you're outnumbered," Draco interrupted. "I have no idea what this is about, but if you try to harm anyone in this room, you will be sorry." His wand was out and trained upon Harry.

Harry laughed, a short bark of mirthless sound. "This is kind of familiar, actually. I seem to remember spending some quality time with the two of you before. We're just missing a few people. Oh, and this time Hermione's on your side instead of being tortured by you."

Draco stepped forward, rage flashing across his face. "You have _no idea_ of what we went through, Potter. None. And leave Hermione out of this."

"You brought it on yourselves, so excuse me if my sympathy is conspicuously absent," Harry shot back.

Lucius's fist pounded down on the table, creating a loud, sharp noise that startled all three of them. "Enough!" he growled. "Enough." And then, to their great shock, he lifted his left hand and said, "Expelliarmus."

Harry tried to hold onto his wand, and so did Draco, but neither of them were successful. The wandless magic wrenched the slivers of wood away in a confused second. Hermione's heart stopped. If Lucius took those wands, he'd be in violation of his sentence and they'd drag him back to Azkaban…and who knew what would happen for the use of wandless magic…

Lucius kept his head. The wands stopped and hovered in the air a foot in front of him. He didn't look tempted by them, either. He looked wary, a bit discomposed, but still the one in control.

"Hermione," he said quietly, "take the wands."

She moved forward and took Harry and Draco's wands, glad to diffuse the situation.

"Now," Lucius continued, "Hermione and Draco…get out."

"What?" Draco exploded. "No. There is _no way_ I'm leaving you alone with him, not when he bursts in here talking about how he'll do nefarious things to you and not regret it."

"There are a lot of people who would do nefarious things to me and not regret it," Lucius pointed out impatiently. "Mr. Potter is not unique."

"For good reason," Harry scowled.

"This is a conversation that must take place, but I _will not_ have the two of you here in the crossfire. Leave Mr. Potter and me to settle things."

"Lucius--" Hermione started.

"_Leave_." His voice brooked no argument; it was a piece of the old Lucius, that venomous creature of scales and gold.

"No," Draco stated, just as rancorous as his father. "I will not be ordered around. Anything that Potter has to say to you, he can say to me. And I'm not so stupid as to think that this conversation won't involve fists!"

"I've got my own pair," Lucius growled. "Now, out!" He moved his left hand again, and an invisible force pressed on Draco's chest and propelled him down the hallway. He fought the entire way, cursing.

Hermione followed reluctantly. As she passed Harry, she gave him the most scathing look she could muster and said,

"Harry James Potter, you're thick. Ginny has forgiven Lucius and she's the one that matters. It's selfish of you to ignore that. You're taking her power away from her all over again."

With a defiant flick of her hair, Hermione stormed after Draco.

* * *

Lucius and Harry stood there for what seemed like a long time, only the parchment-laden table between them. He had known this was a possibility if Ginny confessed to Harry. He had known the blame would come. In Potter's place, he probably wouldn't be reacting any differently.

"So which one of you is fucking Hermione, huh?" Harry demanded suddenly. "The newspaper never did decide."

"Your crudeness is charming, Harry, as is your disrespect for your friend."

"Don't call me that!" he nearly shouted. "You haven't earned the right."

"Oh, now it is a privilege to use your given name? How lofty we have become."

"And how little we have changed, Malfoy. You're still a black-hearted scumbag."

"And you are proving at this very moment that you are still an impetuous child," Lucius returned. This was a battle he could fight forever; engaging him in a war of words was never a good idea for the opposing side. If there was one thing Lucius was good at, it was generating responses where most would be left speechless.

"Better an impetuous child than whatever you are."

Lucius rolled his eyes. "Are you going to hit me, Potter, or just burble infantile insults? Because I don't have all day."

"Right, like you're just going to stand there and let it happen."

Lucius walked around the table and his long legs carried him to Harry. To his credit Harry barely flinched when the tall blond closed the distance between them. However, he was cowed by the quick movement, and the fact that it wasn't followed by a fist to his jaw.

"Here I am, Potter."

"What are you playing at?" Harry demanded.

"You obviously want to exorcise your anger at what happened to your girlfriend – directly via the Dark Lord, indirectly via me – by beating me to a pulp. Well, I'm here." Lucius held out his arms. "I am the world's punching bag. Do make sure you get me in the liver, that will hurt the most." He pointed to the right side of his torso, just beneath the ribs. "It's right here, in case you didn't know. The last person only managed to split it in two. Maybe you can go for three. You're the world's prize fighter, after all."

And, given his consent and his sarcastic direction, Harry felt no guilt whatsoever in drawing back his arm and slamming his fist right where Malfoy was pointing.

* * *

As soon as they were out of the flat, Draco whirled on her.

"What in the nine hells is Potter on about?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?!" Draco practically shouted. His temper was rising exponentially.

"Your father was right, it's Ginny Weasley's story to tell, not mine."

"I am not going to stand here, Hermione," he said murderously. "I don't owe Harry Potter anything and neither does my father. Not anymore."

"Harry won't hurt him. I wouldn't have left if I thought he was capable of that!" she fired back, her own temper beginning to spark.

"I don't share your confidence!" He was yelling now. "Potter isn't the saint you think he is. Sixth year--"

But he never finished, because Kingsley Shacklebolt apparated right next to them with a loud pop. They both jumped and Hermione was startled so badly that when she tried to draw her wand, she fumbled and dropped all three of them on the floor. She and Draco nearly knocked heads when they both lunged for the wands.

"What," Shacklebolt thundered, "is going on here?"

* * *

Harry felt a mild, quickly allayed spear of alarm when he realized that Malfoy had not been kidding about that strategic punch hurting him the most. The blond curled around himself in sheer agony; it left him wide open and Harry swung again. He made contact and heard a satisfying crack. Malfoy's nose was bleeding and he was on his knees, his eyes tearing involuntarily. It was then that Harry realized that Malfoy wasn't going to fight back. The only move he made was to lift the collar of his shirt to soak up the blood streaming down his face.

No, Malfoy wasn't going to fight, but a moment later a grey streak leapt in front of him. It was Oberon, protecting his fallen master. The dog's ears were low and flat, its teeth showing, and an ominous growl rolled from its throat. Harry took a step back. Fighting a man fist-to-fist was one thing; however, a dog had teeth and claws and a speed that Harry didn't.

"Oberon, get," Malfoy wheezed.

Harry's eyes jerked from the dog to its master. Was Malfoy insane? This was the last line of his defense. The dog didn't obey. It only growled louder. Harry noticed a thin, hairless line bisecting the dog's head – a healed wound. It must have tried to protect him the last time, when Skeeter and her compatriot had struck so unexpectedly…

Harry must have been looking at the animal darkly, because Malfoy's voice sounded again, stronger and more acidic.

"Don't you _dare_, Potter."

He struggled to his feet, took the dog by the collar, and hauled the uncooperative animal to the nearest room. When he closed the door, Oberon scrabbled at it with his claws, growling and whining. Malfoy braced on the door for a second. His hand went subconsciously to that spot beneath his ribs.

When he turned the sight of him startled Harry. He had seen Lucius Malfoy in some interesting situations, but never like this. Never with his face and shirtfront covered in blood, blood that Harry had drawn. The shocking red stood out against the bright blue of his eyes and that pale hair; the locks that hung over his left shoulder were dyed crimson at the ends.

They stared at one another for a moment. Harry was shocked that Malfoy would abandon his only protection, but it evaporated away a moment later when the older man's incorrigible malice welled up.

"That's all you've got, Potter? I'm sure your girlfriend punches harder than that. You ought to have sent her to take her own revenge."

He knew that Malfoy was egging him on and didn't care to reason out why. The man had a talent for knowing exactly what would make a person angriest and if he wanted to use it to his own detriment, Harry was not going to stop him. He lunged.

Then they were on the ground, Harry with his knees on either side of his foe's chest, and he swung with a rage he didn't know he had. He landed two punches, three, and in that moment he could have killed him. Malfoy must have sensed it; his hand clamped around Harry's wrist as it came down, halting him so suddenly that he lost his balance. Lucius used it to his advantage and in a few limber movements that belied his age, the blond had somehow flipped them over and pinned Harry down.

Harry struggled, writhing against his grasp, but Malfoy was strong. Or perhaps he was only made so by the need to stay alive; Harry was now quite sure he would snap the man's neck if he escaped.

"If you kill me you will go to Azkaban, fool!" Lucius hissed, giving him a forceful shake. "Who will take care of your pretty ginger then?"

At that moment the door flung open. It gave Harry the moment he needed; it distracted Lucius enough that Harry could wrench out of his iron grasp and wrap his hands around his neck. His satisfaction was short-lived; a shouted spell pulled him away from the object of his rage. He found himself levitated a foot above the ground and he kicked until the intruder stilled him with a Body Bind.

Harry's mind slowed down enough that he could figure out who was here. Kingsley. The Minister of Magic. Circe's sagging tit, even _he_ was on Malfoy's side?

"Lucius," Kinglsey said, "are you all right?"

Harry's eyes flickered to the man he'd just been pried away from. He looked awful; his nose was obviously broken and a slash beneath his eye made it look like he was crying blood. Bruises were blooming rapidly across his face and neck. Harry had been in fights before, but never one where the other party did not fight back, and the realization of what he could have done hit harder and heavier than Lucius's fist ever would.

Inexplicably, Harry's anger drained away like a bathtub whose plug had been pulled. Hermione's words punched through his anger at last. He _was_ being selfish. He had suffered through many things in his time, more than the average person could endure, but he had never been an average person – and he had never gone through what Ginny had. His Ginny. She was so strong, so brave to stand by him in spite of how badly it had bitten her that first year and long afterwards. He couldn't begin to imagine the strength it took. And here he was, crashing through her peace, negating all the work she had done to become all right, ignoring the absolution she had already granted to the facilitator of her shame.

That was why she looked so sad. She knew he would react this way and that he could not trust her to have taken care of things herself. She had told him anyway; still, the foreknowledge of how a person would react did little to negate the pain and disappointment when that person gave you exactly what you expected. He sighed. If there was one thing he had always recognized about Ginny, it was that she could take care of herself and her affairs better than most. It was one of many reasons that he'd fallen head over heels for her.

"I am fine, Minister," he heard Lucius say.

"Mr. Potter?"

"Fine," Harry ground out.

"All right," Kingsley said. "Now that I know neither of you is in imminent danger of dying, I'm going to have to arrest you both."

"No!" Harry shouted immediately, renewing his struggle against the Body Bind.

"Harry," Shacklebolt said, a bit more gently, "you don't have a scratch on you and Malfoy looks like he's been mauled. You assaulted an unarmed man and you might have done worse, considering your hands were around his neck when I came in."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Lucius beat him to it.

"He is also unarmed, Minister. And I freely admit that I instigated it."

Harry's eyes widened in shock. Malfoy was sticking up for him? Had hell frozen over?

"That doesn't excuse it," Kingsley said. "And let's talk about him being unarmed for a moment, Lucius."

"I used magic," Lucius said matter-of-factly. "I'm aware that this violates the terms of my sentence and that I'll be sent back to Azkaban. I will come peacefully."

Kingsley nodded gravely. "Your honesty will work in your favor. They likely won't sentence you to the Kiss."

"What?!" Harry exploded. "You're not serious about sending him back, Kingsley!"

"A deal is a deal, Harry," Shacklebolt said.

"NO. No. The only reason he used magic was because I came in here ready to tear his head off!" With a growl of rage, Harry strained against the Body Bind until he thought his heart might burst.

"Stop it," the dark man ordered. "You'll injure yourself."

"_Let me go_, Kingsley!" Harry snarled. "I won't fight once you let me go."

"Do I have your word you won't try to hurt Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes."

With a severe frown, Kingsley muttered, "Finite Incantatem."

The moment Harry's feet hit the floor he jabbed a finger towards Malfoy and went on a tirade. "His sentence was that he couldn't use a _wand_! He didn't use one – it was wandless and I know that you know that - so you have NO RECOURSE to throw him back in Azkaban! All he used was a disarming spell and a levitation charm in self defense, and so help me, Minister, if you arrest him, I'll--"

"Shut up, Potter, before you are arrested for threatening the Minister of Magic in addition to assault," Lucius interrupted dryly.

"No!" Harry shouted. "I will not have a man go to prison because he defended himself when I stormed into his house and tried to kill him!"

"Mr. Malfoy is right, Harry, it is generally wise not to further incriminate yourself once you've been caught."

"Minister," Lucius said evenly. "You know as well as I that no court would convict him unless he dismembered a small child right in front of them. There is no point in wasting time and money on a fruitless trial." He swallowed. "And I would not testify against him anyhow, so in the absence of my testimony and other viable witnesses, it would be quite futile."

This time both of them gawked at him. Harry was stunned. The devil was ice-skating in hell, he was sure of it.

At last Kingsley threw his hands up in defeat. "I can't begin to understand what's happened here, but I'd rather not have to arrest either of you. So, Harry, if you are on the record stating that Mr. Malfoy's magic use was wandless and in self-defense, he is cleared. And Lucius, if you claim that you instigated this incident and do not wish to press charges, I can hardly force justice on you. BUT--" he barked , causing both men to flinch, "if anything like this happens again you will both be thrown in Azkaban before you can get a word in edgewise. Now stay out of trouble!"

He turned, his cloak whipping with the rapidity of the motion, and showed himself out. Harry and Lucius both sagged with relief before meeting eyes across the room.

"You wouldn't…you wouldn't really have gone back to Azkaban for this, would you?" Harry asked, still aghast.

Lucius crossed his arms and shrugged. And in that moment, Harry forgave him.

* * *

Draco was not in the mood to forgive. As soon as Shacklebolt left, warning them to keep their wands to themselves lest he return, he wasted no time blazing back into the flat. Hermione was on his heels, instinctively knowing that this situation could rapidly become ugly again.

She gasped when she saw Lucius. Draco was already pressing him down into a chair, examining his ruined face. And it was ruined. She couldn't believe what Harry had done to him – Harry who barely had a hair out of place.

Quickly she crossed the room. Instinct told her that she had to get Harry's wand back in his hand before Draco's attention returned to him. Harry's face said that he realized the same thing.

He took his wand with palpable guilt. She contemplated her best friend of over a decade.

"You should…you should go," she whispered.

"Yes, Potter, you should," Draco said, his voice dripping with venom. Hermione felt him behind her, and for the first time since becoming reacquainted with Draco, she sensed a bit of the boy who had tortured her in school. "He won't hurt him, huh, Hermione?" the blond sniped.

Harry's eyes swept her and something changed in the green depths. A sinking feeling hit her; Harry had just realized what no one else had yet. He had just realized that she was well and truly…involved…with Draco.

"I have tried to forget the past, Potter," Draco went on. "And I do owe you. You saved my life – three times now. I won't forget that. But if you ever, _ever_ threaten my family again, I will kill you."

Hermione turned to him, unsettled by the truth in his voice. "Draco…Draco, you don't understand. You don't know all the details."

His lip curled up. "Neither do you."

Hermione swallowed and then turned away from him. She couldn't have a conversation with him when he was like this.

"Let's go, Harry."

* * *

Ginny wiped tears from her eyes. She couldn't seem to stop crying. She knew that Harry wouldn't take her confession well, but there had been murder in his eyes. It must be something about men; their first instinct was anger and jealousy. She knew that all of her brothers would be the same, and that was why she would never tell a single one of them. Lucius was not a cat. He didn't have nine lives and even if he had, three had already been used up: one by the war, one by her own slim mercy, and another by Skeeter and her sidekick. She had exactly six brothers; they would be the end of him. She sighed. No one else would know, then, except maybe her mother. However, there was no guarantee that her mother wouldn't up and kill Lucius herself. She had, after all, dispatched Bellatrix LeStrange with a fury that no one expected.

She sighed and pulled herself up off the couch. This was the end of the fragile peace she'd made with the Malfoys, she was sure of it. It was a pity; she'd become rather attached to the females of the family. Narcissa and Titania were both quite pleasant. Not that she considered them to be in the same category for anything other than gender.

She was going to have to return Titania. The dog had really become a part of small family she had with Harry. She seemed to know exactly what Ginny was feeling at any given time and was always there to offer a soft, warm pillow, a wet nose, and the occasional slobbery kiss. At last a smile tweaked Ginny's lips; she had to try very hard not to compare that to some of her ex-boyfriends.

Come to think of it, where was Titania? Normally when she was upset, the dog was glued to her hip. She hadn't noticed her when she woke up, then she'd been distracted by Harry, and now it was nearly one in the afternoon and there was no trace of the dog anywhere. Was it possible that she'd gotten out somehow? A wriggling nervousness formed in Ginny's stomach. It would be adding insult to injury if she _lost_ the one thing Lucius had given her. Never mind that she'd worry herself sick over the dog being taken by bad people or hit by a car…

She began a search of the flat, hoping that Titania was just hiding out somewhere. Or maybe Harry had taken her with him, one step ahead of his girlfriend? No, Harry was not thinking clearly enough for that. She ought to march over there and box his ears.

Damn it. Where was she? Not in the bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, the dining room…Ginny flung open the door to the loo, which was slightly ajar, and let out a startled curse.

"Oh…fuck!"

And then she squealed and jumped up and down like a little girl. She had found Titania, all right. Titania and seven little additions! No wonder the dog had been looking a bit chubby lately. It had nothing to do with the food! In fact, they ought to have been feeding her _more_. But they hadn't known, and evidently it didn't matter; Titania and all the puppies looked healthy.

Smiling, Ginny went to retrieve a bowl of water and some food for the tired dog. She couldn't very well bring her back now.

* * *

September 25

Upon her arrival in southern Italy, Narcissa could only gape. Prior to this, she had been as far south as Rome. The places she had seen were beautiful but they didn't compare to this. This was the Amalfi coast they always spoke of. There was Mount Vesuvius, a slumbering giant covered over in grass and yellow flowers. It loomed in the distance, beautiful but dangerous. To the left, that must be Capri; the island jutted out of the blue ocean, tall and craggy. She could see the trail of boats going to and fro, some lowly freighters, some yachts. There was money on that island – money and trouble.

She surveyed herself. She looked like money and she was bent on trouble; perhaps if she showed enough cleavage to the right person, she could catch a ride on one of those yachts…

* * *

September 12

"There," Draco said, sitting back and placing his wand on the table, "done."

Lucius gingerly touched his nose. It no longer throbbed with pain and beneath his fingers it was straight and normal. He looked at his son, suitably impressed.

"Perhaps you should have been a healer."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Why did you let him hit you, Dad? I've never seen you in a fist fight but I know you can do better than that."

"You're right, I can." Lucius stood up and pulled the bloody t-shirt over his head. It was beyond salvage now.

"What the hell is that?!" Draco demanded, shooting to his feet.

"What?"

"That son of a bitch! He _knew_ you'd been hurt there, how _dare_ he…!"

Ah. The punch to the liver. Well, he had invited it, but he hadn't expected Potter to take him up on the offer. He made a mental note not to give the boy any ideas from now on. Lucius looked down and his eyes widened. A plum colored bruise with red edges stood out against his skin like a continent on a globe.

"Oh," he said. Looking at its contused firework of colors made him feel like he ought to be in more pain. This was definitely a case of it looking worse than it was.

"What a…what a...cocksucking hippogriff-fucking tosspot!" Draco fumed.

Lucius blinked and then laughed. It hurt his ribs but he couldn't resist. He had not heard his son use such language, well, ever.

"How can you laugh?" Draco glared at him. "He nearly killed you!"

"I would not have let him kill me," he said, still half-smirking. His smirk faded away, however, when he saw how serious and distressed his offspring was. "What's the matter?"

"You don't know what he's capable of."

Lucius frowned. Draco's tone wasn't encouraging. Mirth left him in one fell swoop.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

Draco didn't need much persuasion. He sat back down in his chair, crossed his arms, and gave his father a surly look before starting.

"When you were…in Azkaban, and I was…"

"Trying to kill Dumbledore," Lucius supplied.

"Yes, that. Potter was suspicious of me that entire year and rightly so, of course. He was so stupid about it. He was always trying to spy on me and point the finger at me and I managed to avoid him for months."

"And then?"

Draco sighed. "Bad timing. I was in the loo, the one no one ever uses. I was at my wit's end. I had tried everything I could think of to complete that mission. My time was running out. He," and his voice hitched and a malevolent expression passed over his youthful face, "had told me that if I didn't succeed by the end of the school year, he would order the dementors to give you the Kiss."

Lucius controlled a spurt of rage and an even greater spurt of guilt. The poor boy. Draco had always idolized him for reasons he didn't understand; he certainly wasn't deserving of it. He knew his son had torn himself apart that long year he'd been incarcerated…no, incarcerated was too nice a word for it.

"So I…I was upset," Draco continued, choosing his words carefully. "I was in the loo trying to get myself together before my next class. It wasn't working. And then, lo and behold, who should waltz in but Harry Potter."

Lucius exhaled. He could almost picture it. If he knew his son, he'd be so angry at being caught in a moment of emotion that he would lash out immediately. His and Potter's animosity had been the stuff of legend. It was unfortunate; Draco could have used that moment of weakness to lure the other boy in, to play on his hero complex and make him believe that he was a victim of the Dark Lord's madness. It was true, but at that point he had still been a semi-willing victim. He could have won Potter's confidence, caused him to drop his guard, and then delivered him like clockwork. It would have won him much greater rewards than Dumbledore's murder. But Draco didn't think like that; he never had. At one time Lucius had thought it a weakness but now he knew better. He, on the other hand, had thought that way for so long that he'd probably never be able to stop. At the very least, though, he could now prevent himself from acting on the knowledge that he could manipulate almost anyone.

"Are you listening?" Draco interrupted his thoughts.

"Yes. Just thinking. So Potter walks in…"

"He walks in, sees me…he didn't know what to do. I got so angry. I swear, Dad, that was the angriest I've ever been. It was all because of him. Everything I was going through, you were going through, Mum…it was because of him. I shouldn't have done it, but I went after him."

"Understandable."

"We dueled. It was short. He used Sectumsempra on me."

A nasty shock welled up in Lucius's chest. He felt the way a person did when he slipped on black ice and hit the ground tailbone-first. Where on earth had Potter learned Sectumsempra? That was Snape's curse, a very effective one, at that. He'd seen a man die from it, bled until he went white and blue and withered like fruit in the summer sun…

"Why didn't you tell me this?" Lucius demanded.

"Well, Dad, you were in prison at the time and I'm sure they were reading your letters. What was I supposed to write? Dear Father, today while I was trying to figure out how to murder Albus Dumbledore the savior of the world hexed me with a dark jinx invented by a Death Eater. P.S., do you have any suggestions since you've got that book Famous Wizards and How to Kill Them--"

"Watch your cheek."

Draco snorted at him. His intimidation really didn't work anymore, and he supposed it shouldn't now that his son was truly a man. He grimaced. If his father was still alive…it pained him to admit it, but the man would probably _still_ intimidate the bejesus of out him. Draco was fortunate that his acquaintance with his grandfather had not lasted very long. Lucius hadn't been so lucky. He was pretty sure he could write a book about the ways he'd dreamed of killing his father. Yes, but Abraxas Malfoy had been more infamous than famous to those who knew him…

Lucius shook his head, brushing his demon sire from his mind. He had not thought about him in years; this week's breakdown had brought him back in full force and Lucius really didn't appreciate it. In the end Abraxas's pure blood had gotten the best of him. He'd died from a clot in his brain. The healers said he might have lived a while after the stroke hit, physically unable to move or speak, trapped in his own mind as he died slowly. For a long time Lucius had thanked every mysterious force that was responsible for telling his mother let Abraxas 'sleep in' that day…what a sleep it was…

"Sectumsempra," he breathed. "Did he leave you there?"

A muscle in Draco's jaw clenched. "No. He tried to reverse it and when he realized he couldn't he ran. I thought he was leaving me to die, but then he came back with Snape."

Lucius closed his eyes. If it had been anyone else, _anyone_, Draco could very well have died. Severus was one of the only people who knew the counter-curse.

"The best part is that he barely got in trouble for it. I was forbidden from telling anyone at school. Life went on as if he hadn't almost killed me." Draco's dusky eyes narrowed. "That was when I stopped feeling bad about what I had to do. That was when I repaired that bloody vanishing cabinet."

"I can't blame you." Lucius bit his lip. "But I'm glad I didn't know, or that boy would be dead."

Draco nodded. "I know." He shifted in his chair, seeming somehow lighter. "Your turn, Dad."

Lucius sat across from him, his bloody shirt still in hand. Drawing a deep breath, he said,

"Do you remember the Chamber of Secrets?"

* * *

September 25

Narcissa frowned. The only way up was a _funicolare_, a long, slow, jerky ride that would have to be taken with a throng of annoying muggles. Only muggles would invent something so ridiculous. Essentially it was a cable car that dangled hundreds of feet above the ground and pulled them up the mountain at an agonizing pace. They couldn't fly, for goodness sake, they couldn't even levitate! One snapped cable and they'd all die. Oh well; that was not her concern.

She couldn't apparate because she had no idea where she was going. A broom was out of the question with so many muggles around. It would have to be the _funicolare_. If the damn thing broke, she would be the lone survivor. Fancy that.

She paid the fare and shuffled in. She hoped for anonymity but knew she wouldn't get it. Men that spanned six decades were staring at her already. Women, too, but for a different reason. Their looks said they hated her for being rich and thin and beautiful. Narcissa lifted her chin a little higher and pretended that none of them existed.

Once they began to move, she had to admit that the view was spectacular. But the swaying in the wind was not. Merlin, these muggles and their insane methods of travel! Metal boxes on wheels, things on cables…

She couldn't escape the _funicolare_ soon enough. Extracting herself from the crowd, she strolled into Capri proper. The sources she'd read said that Capri had been a resort from the time of the Romans; she saw why. It was gorgeous, almost impossibly so, and her sharp eyes noted many shops she would have liked to clean out. Since Ginny Weasley had shown her a muggle fashion magazine, she'd become addicted to certain designers. Clothing was one thing that muggles could do right. And shoes. But shoes fell under clothing, yes?

There would be time for that later. Today she was on a mission.

* * *

September 12

"What is the matter with you?" Lucius said, vexed. Draco had been like a zombie since the end of their conversation. Lucius disliked himself enough for his part in what had happened to Ginny Weasley; it was difficult to think that Draco might hold it against him, too.

"Nothing," Draco responded.

"You're lying."

His son flashed him a smile. "Taught by the best."

Lucius swatted at him. "The best taught you a lot better."

"I know."

He shrugged and returned to his gelato. Narcissa had brought it from Italy a few weeks ago and he had forgotten it was in the freezer until he went to get ice for his ribs. It was stracciatella, whatever that meant, and delicious, so he wasn't going to let his morose son distract him anymore.

Draco's leg was going. His heel tapped on the floor unconsciously; Lucius counted 124 taps in a minute. Something was stewing inside him. With a sigh, Lucius stood up and put the bowl under his nose.

"Eat it."

"I don't want it."

"It wasn't a request, and you do want it."

"You're right, I do." Draco took the bowl shamelessly and didn't bother to cast a cleansing charm on the spoon.

"Now, I have sacrificed my dessert for you. Tell me what's wrong."

"Oh, so it was a bribe?"

"When did you become so annoying?"

"Around the time that you became so soft that you give me ice cream when I'm feeling bad."

Lucius opened his mouth but had no retort. Draco had a point.

"Touche," he admitted.

"I won," Draco said, looking slightly dazed.

"Yes, and I'll never give you my gelato again."

"I'll take money next time."

"All right, I get the idea. Leave you the hell alone. Fine, but you make terrible company when you are sullen."

Draco tapped the spoon against his lips thoughtfully. "She'll never pick me over him."

Lucius blinked. "What?"

"Hermione. She will never pick me over Potter."

And there it was. That was the answer. He was thinking about Hermione.

"He is her best friend."

"Isn't your…" Draco squirmed, "significant other supposed to be your best friend?"

Lucius could have rolled his eyes at his naivete, but he didn't. "Do you think your mother and I are best friends?"

"No."

"And she's already proven herself quite capable of choosing someone else over me. So that blows your theory out of the water, Draco."

"I don't know if I can accept that," he said, somber.

"It is very early. You hardly know one another yet. Perhaps you should wait until you understand your feelings before you pass judgment on whether or not you can accept her friendship with Potter. If you love the girl, it might be worth suffering his presence."

Draco looked at him like he had ten heads. Lucius smiled, which caused Draco to look at him like he had fifteen heads and had suddenly turned pink.

"Uh, thanks, Dad," he said, half-sarcastic, half-awkward.

"I am capable of actual fatherly advice, you know," Lucius replied.

"Ice cream and fatherly advice," Draco muttered. "The end is near."

Lucius stood up and towered imperiously over his progeny. "_Your_ end will be near if you leave that girl after forcing me to give her up."

"See," Draco pointed at him, "you say that you don't love her but I think that _you're_ the one lying this time."

"Keep on thinking, son," he smirked. "And send me a letter when you _know_."

Thus ended Draco's brief reign as king of verbal jousting.

* * *

September 25

Three jinxes later, she had an address. Sometimes she was eternally grateful for her ex-husband's morbid book collection. A testicle-twisting hex was really very effective when one was trying to extract information from a man.

It was a villa. It made her think; if she ever went back to Lucius – wait a minute, where had that thought come from? She was engaged to Giacomo. So what if she'd slipped and allowed Lucius to screw her silly in the hospital? Mm, and what a screw…just like she remembered…

All right. Control. Center. Dolores Umbridge naked on a cold day. Yes, that effectively killed any arousal she might be experiencing. Whoever she ended up with, maybe a villa was on the list of things to buy. It was beautiful, airy, light in a way that Malfoy Manor never had been.

Narcissa rolled her wand between her fingers and contemplated the best way to go about this. She generally had others to act on her violent desires; she had never exactly stormed into someone's house and killed and/or severely maimed them before. She supposed it didn't really matter as long as she had a way in and a way out.

She cast a camouflaging charm on herself and walked slowly around the villa. This room was perfect. It had two doors. Now all she had to do was get in, set off a Caterwauling Charm, and wait for Scattori to jog to his death…

But when she stole into the room, the house was as quiet as a tomb. No voices, no footsteps, no ambient noise of human occupation. The Caterwauling Charm got no results. An identification spell proved that the house was empty.

Narcissa threw her shoe against the wall in frustration. All that work, the string of Unforgiveables and traumatized scrotums, for nothing. Sighing, she picked up her shoe and inspected it. It hadn't taken any lasting damage. Good, because the damn thing had cost probably eight hundred galleons; she hadn't bothered to do the Euro to galleon calculation.

She was back to square one, then. And now they knew she was on their trail; someone must have told them. She should have come the moment that henchman let Scattori's location spill. Damn it, damn it, damn it, what was she going to do now?

She started when a bird flew in through the door she left hanging open. Bloody thing…she was about to direct it back outside with her wand when it dropped a piece of parchment. She froze.

Oh, Scattori had known she was coming. And judging by this letter, he might not be very far away. This could be a trap…

Hesitantly, she crouched down to pick up the parchment. With her wand raised, Narcissa read.

_Dear Ms. Black,_

_I see that you have found my summer villa. I normally leave the day of the equinox, but this year the weather was so pleasant that I decided to stay. That is, until I heard that you were interested in my whereabouts. Needless to say, that loose-lipped friend of mine is no longer troubling anyone._

_I understand that you are upset about your son. His poisoning was a Mancini hit at its finest; I didn't order it and do not condone it. For this reason I am willing to overlook this little indiscretion. You are a woman of sense and if you cease your pursuit, your family will be safe._

_If you continue to try to find me, I will be forced to rescind this offer and it will not end pleasantly. Please make the right choice._

_Yours,_

_Gaetano Scattori _

* * *


	13. Chapter 12

Author's Note: I'd just like to share that this fic has been nominated for and won 2nd place in the Best Mystery category at the Dramione Awards on LJ! Thanks everyone. :)

lucas'mom: Not a Dramione fan, eh? I am touch and go with the pairing; some are very well written and some aren't. I don't know that I'll write the pairing again after this. This story was more an experiment and a relentless plot bunny than anything else. I'm having a lot of fun writing it but like you, I do enjoy Lumione more. Yes, laptops are horribly temperamental, but they don't...excrete. Hehe. I'll probably check out Torchwood soon, on everyone's recommendations.

Megan Consoer: Here's a new chapter for ya.

she is brighter: You asked about Draco's screen name...DracoDormiens. Well, if you've ever seen the Hogwarts School seal, it says 'Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus', which means 'Never tickle a sleeping dragon' in Latin. So, Draco Dormiens on its own would mean sleeping dragon. I just thought it was a fun way to tie in that bit of Hogwarts trivia.

Kit: Haha, I'm sorry. Narcissa needed something to cool her down and Umbridge did the trick. I won't use that imagery ever again, I promise!

caseyjarryn: Thank you, I'm glad you're enjoying it.

CoCo82: Yes, Harry's temper got the better of him here. Believe me, he feels bad about it. I thought the two of them both sticking up for the other would be necessary to start to heal the rift between them, hence the Azkaban scare. Don't worry, I would NEVER do that to dear Lucius. Poor dear has been such a good boy. As for my favorite Lily Allen lyrics...there are so many to choose from, but I'm partial to 'good dancer, love, but you should've worn a bra' from Friday Night. I think that exact thought CONSTANTLY when I go out. Wear bras, people! I'm righteously infuriated about the cancellation of FW, as well. Torchwood might fill my void...

loveangelli: Yes Harry was taking no prisoners; he can be somewhat unreasonable and brash at times. Haha I love your reaction to the puppies. I needed to put something bright in a somewhat angsty chapter!

missMANNEQUINx: OOC? Perhaps. It is an AU, though, and a significant amount of time has gone by so anything is possible. Also, remember that Lucius has been living without magic for upwards of 6 years. He's HAD to change to cope. I hope you continue to enjoy the story, though.

Tears of Ebon-Grey: Thank you! Yes, Lucius and Draco definitely had a bonding moment there. And both Lucius and Narcissa are thinking about the other a little more than they'd like to admit. Here's a new chapter for your viewing pleasure!

* * *

Narcissa stood very still, the letter clenched in her hand. Rage was not an adequate word to describe what she was feeling. These bastards were toying with her. There was nothing in the world that made her angrier than that. Lucius had learned that lesson well enough very early in their marriage. Oh _GOD_, why couldn't she stop thinking about him? And _that_ of all things…the one time she had dominated him so exquisitely, struck fear into his eyes, and earned a comment that perhaps she was more like her sister Bellatrix than he thought. She had slapped him clear across his beautiful flushed cheek, misconstruing it as an admission that he had slept with Bellatrix. He hadn't – the face he made was enough to tell her that - and he had wasted no time getting her right back for her viciousness. Oh, if people knew what had gone on in that bedroom in the first year of their marriage, their jaws would fall off.

She smiled, the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing. Whatever she did to Gaetano Scattori, it would not have a pleasurable payoff. Narcissa turned the letter over and extracted her lipstick from the pocket of her dress. In a dark shade of red, she wrote one word:

COWARD.

* * *

September 28

Hermione looked up from her book when a knock sounded at the door. It was late; all the students ought to be in bed. It must be someone important, or at the very least someone she shouldn't ignore. She unfolded her legs from beneath her, set the book down, and strode over to the door.

Draco was not the person she expected to see. She had gotten the impression that Hogwarts was somewhere he preferred to keep his distance from, and why not? Her memories of it weren't all spectacular, either. McGonagall, in that knowing way of hers, must have shown him to her rooms.

"Hello," he said, the left corner of his lip rising in an awkward half-smile.

"Hi," she replied, a little flustered. For Merlin's sake, she looked terrible and so did her living space. Today had been a taxing day; a third year Hufflepuff managed to explode his cauldron and she still bore a small burn across her cheek from a flying piece of superheated cast-iron. She should have gone to Madame Pomfrey but the day had been so busy that by the time she remembered, she was already in her room and had zero desire to walk back up to the infirmary.

He noticed it and reached out to touch her cheek. "Are you all right?"

They hadn't spoken in nearly five days, but his gentle concern made whatever confused anger she had reserved for him melt away. "I…I'm fine. Exploding cauldron incident."

His smile bloomed to a full one. "I still can't believe you do this. I hope it doesn't turn you into Snape."

"There are worse things to be turned into," she murmured. _But not many_…

"So…can I come in, or shall I let the castle's ears hear everything I'm going to say?" Draco cast a glance over his shoulder as he spoke and there was the unmistakable sound of a person scrambling away down the corridor. Hermione stepped out, curious about the eavesdropper's identity, but by the time she got around Draco the offender was gone. Without her obstructing the doorway, Draco walked in, heedless of whether she was going to invite him or not.

Hermione followed him and shut the door. "You could have waited until the weekend. If you had owled I would have come to see you in London. I just wasn't sure if you wanted me to."

"Not London," he reminded her. "I'm doing the doctorate, remember?"

"Oh, that's right. Where is it again?"

He rolled his grey eyes at her. "Don't act like you don't know where Finley Greene is based."

She made a disgruntled face at him. She was still jealous that he got to be anywhere near the man. Greene was simply a genius. "So. Philadelphia, then?"

"Yes, I'm all settled in now. I start on Monday."

Hermione sighed and went over to the fireplace. She started to call the kitchens, thinking tea would be nice, but his hand stopped her. "Let me."

"Why?"

"Because we're not going to the kitchens."

"Where are you planning on taking me?" she asked, even as she transferred the floo powder into his warm hand.

"It's a secret."

"I don't like secrets."

"You'll like this one, I promise."

She looked at him, searching his eyes. She had seen how much he resented her taking Harry's side in the skirmish earlier that week. He had been _angry_ at her, and quite ready to make good on his threat to kill Harry. The wedge was still between them, no matter how they wanted to pretend that it was not.

His eyes flickered away and he looked at his feet. "Hermione, my father told me…about Ginny. I don't…I _can't_ forgive Potter yet, but I know that if it was you, and someone had done that to you, I…I would probably want to rip them limb from limb, too."

She swallowed. Sudden tears prickled in her eyes. Wedge dissolved…

He dropped the floo powder back into its container, brushed off his hands, and took hold of her jaw gently. With a flick of his wand and a tingling sensation, she knew that he had healed the burn. A smile touched his lips, one that was slightly wicked, and a moment later she knew why.

"Anywhere else that needs…healing?"

She sniffled and laughed, swatting his hand. "Not right now."

He feigned disappointment; she wondered, though, how fake it was. "You were going to tell me something on Saturday," she spoke up. "Something about Harry, sixth year…"

Doubt flickered across his features. After a moment, he shook his head. "Don't worry about it."

"No. I want to know."

"Trust me, you don't."

"It's better that I hear it now, when we're both calm."

He looked uneasy. "Are you sure?"

"Draco, there is no one on this earth that knows more about Harry Potter's flaws than me. I can take it."

"All right. Let's take a walk, then."

"A walk? I thought you didn't want the castle hearing what you had to say."

"I came to apologize – that's the only thing I wanted kept private. Everything else…" he gave her an odd look, one that was a mixture of happiness and sadness, "the castle already knows."

* * *

Finally.

Lucius ran his hands down Emma's smooth back, no longer caring for the impracticality of it. If someone was going to be breaking down his door once a week and attempting to kill him, he was going to enjoy himself on the non-killing days. He had been ready to bed Hermione, glorious muggleborn that she was, not so long ago. The jump to a muggle was not so great and he knew he had chosen wisely; Emma was not nearly as demure as she looked.

He still had his qualms about her children. But this was just sex. Sleeping with her once did not mean he would have to marry her or fill the shoes of another (crazy) man. That man had to be crazy to leave her.

This was the best of his doldrums-at-the-Ministry fantasies coming true. How many times he had wished for a horny secretary with a short skirt in those days…but even if she ever miraculously appeared, he probably wouldn't have acted on it. He wasn't really in the business of being unfaithful. Now he had no one to be unfaithful to.

A small spasm wracked his heart. Where had that come from? He pulled Emma's pretty face down to his and kissed her. It effectively eradicated that unexpected pain. She wasn't a secretary, she was a businesswoman; that was better because she had more power and wasn't afraid to wield it. And judging by the fact that she was straddling him, her skirt hiked up around her hips, she fit both the horny and the short skirt criteria.

Her teeth tugged at his lower lip. It elevated his low throb of desire to a monstrous roar. At his agitated squirm, she paused and looked down at him, for in this position she was a little bit taller. Her eyes were fogged but not insensible. If it was up to him, they would not stay that way for very long.

"This could create problems. You work for me," she breathed.

It was absolutely ridiculous that she brought it up with her bare breasts a few inches from his face, and that was the only thing that kept him from being supremely annoyed. If she thought she could stop him – or _herself­ _- now, she was thoroughly mistaken. Lucius tugged her skirt up above where her hips had caught it and gripped her buttocks. He shifted her forward so that she could feel the part of him that had been far too neglected of late. Yes, there had been that delectable time with Narcissa – good God, his Narcissa. But she was not his anymore, he admonished himself, and pushed it from his mind. He pressed up against the woman in his lap, one smooth roll of his hips, and her gasp betrayed her.

With a smirk he announced, "I quit."

* * *

It was strange to be led through the castle by him. The old walls had seen many things, but rarely was it a Gryffindor and a Slytherin walking hand in hand. The paintings were whispering among themselves. Hermione smiled. For every sad memory she had of Hogwarts, there were twice as many good ones; it pained her to think that Draco might not feel the same.

He stopped and she looked around, orienting herself. "Moaning Myrtle's bathroom?"

"The one and only." He pulled the door open and held it. She gave him a sardonic look; in her opinion, such a chivalrous motion was wasted on a bathroom. Nonetheless, she went in.

It had been a long time. So many things had happened here; the brewing of Polyjuice, her accidental transformation into some bizarre cat creature (she wondered if he knew about that), Harry and Ron finding the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets…and if Draco was bringing her here, apparently something else had happened, as well. Something Harry had never told her.

Harry wasn't one for secrets. Not after so many had been kept from him. So for him to bite his lip and keep something to himself…it had to be bad. It had to be something that made him think he'd lose them if he told. Or something that made him feel so ashamed that he couldn't bear repeating it.

Draco was prowling the tile floor. It was strange how small it seemed now; at twelve it had seemed immense, like everything else in the castle. Now it was just a dank, cobwebbed, infrequently used loo. Her eyes drifted to the sinks in the middle of the room. There was the marking, the one Ron and Harry had told her about. Somewhere beneath their feet, the skeleton of a basilisk rested. So, too, did the first ghost of Tom Riddle.

Draco used his wand to blast a jet of air at the dusty floor. Hermione sneezed and he gave her an apologetic look.

"Do you see that?" he asked after her sneezing fit had passed.

"See what? The dirty floor?"

"There's an outline. Do you see it?"

Hermione focused where he was pointing. Come to think of it…yes, there was an outline, an irregular blotch with curved edges, like the stain a puddle of water might have made. But water would not seep into the tile and the grout between them and color them a deep shade of brown. Horror bloomed inside her.

"Is that blood?" she asked tremulously. She didn't like where this was going.

"Yes," he answered abruptly. "It's mine."

"Couldn't…couldn't they have cleaned it up?" she asked weakly.

"No. Not when it is the result of Sectumsempra."

Hermione blinked and met his eyes. She had never heard of that spell before. His glance was incredulous. She knew what he was thinking – the know-it-all Hermione Granger, stymied.

"You've never heard of it?"

She shook her head.

"I know you've seen it. It was what blew George Weasley's ear off."

Hermione gasped. That had been one of the worst wounds she'd ever had the misfortune of seeing. No matter what Molly did to try to staunch it, it wouldn't stop bleeding. Come to think of it, George's blood had never come out of her dress; she had thrown it away. It had scarred terribly, too, regardless of what any healer did.

"But you – you don't have any scars," she stammered. She knew that from experience.

"No, and the only reason I don't is because the creator of the curse was the one to heal me."

"Who?"

"Snape."

"But you said Harry--"

"Yes, Harry was the one to use the curse on me."

Hermione was flabbergasted. Sectumsempra was downright ugly, and she had only seen it inflicted on a tiny part of someone's anatomy. The blood stain on the floor was much, much too big to just have been Draco's ear. Oh, Merlin – how could Harry have used that on him, knowing what it could do? Harry had a temper, yes, but he wasn't a monster!

"How…how could he!" Hermione sputtered, pulled ten different ways by emotions. She had to admit that in those days Draco would go out of his way to incite Harry's rage, so the conflict was probably justified, but…what could Draco possibly have done to make him _that_ angry?

"I'm sure you're thinking that I must have provoked him, and you're right. I attacked him because he saw something he wasn't supposed to see and he retaliated. But he didn't know," Draco said softly. "He'd read the curse scribbled in a book somewhere. Had no idea what it could do."

She was angrier at Harry for that; he _knew_ better than to use a spell he didn't know the results of! He could have _killed_ Draco! And even though they had wished many things upon him back then, they had never wished death.

"What…what was it like?" she dared to ask. George had been so blasé about it, joking through his pain until Molly became so upset that she knocked him out with a quick stunner.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

Hermione nodded.

Draco gave her a wary look, but went on. "Well, he got me right in the chest. The nearest thing I can think of to compare to is being flayed. You know, when your skin is peeled--"

"I know what flaying is!" she interrupted.

He chuckled at her fire.

"How can you laugh?" Hermione asked. "You could have died."

"I know." His smile widened. "Do you know how many times I almost died that year and the one after? At least with Potter I would have bled out quickly. The Dark Lord was not so merciful."

She backed against the sinks and leaned against the porcelain lip, bothered by the way he could smile when he spoke of such things. She had never thought about what life must have been like for Draco. She had assumed that he had been all in for Voldemort's agenda up until his own hide was in danger. Never had she made the connection that after the Department of Mysteries, after Lucius was shipped snarling and spitting to Azkaban, that Draco was left to take up his mantle. And what a mantle it had been; back then Lucius had been nearly untouchable in his hatred and his devious intellect. Draco had not lived long enough to amass even a fraction of either.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, interrupting her thoughts. "I shouldn't bring it up. It's over and done with."

"No," she negated, pushing back to her feet. "I want to know. I just wasn't ready for it."

He nodded. "So…I'm not going to have to keep you from mauling Potter, am I?"

Hermione smiled. "No. I think he feels miserable enough about it on his own. He was always very good at self-flagellation."

"Aren't we all," Draco said ruefully. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

Lucius lay next to her, sated and half-asleep. Bloody hell. Emma was a terror in bed. He didn't think he'd ever been pushed so hard by any woman. His neighbors were going to hate him; as she was a muggle, he couldn't whip out his wand and cast a silencing charm. If they were home, the adjoining houses had been treated to a graphic litany of sexual sounds and demands.

He wondered how long she had gone without; she was a busy woman, running her own business and raising two children. Surely she hadn't neglected herself in that way? How was it possible? There ought to be plenty of men who would be willing to bend her over at a moment's notice. He was on the top of that list, now.

He glanced at her. She was in a deep sleep with her back to him, her dark, sex-messed curls fanned out behind her. He snorted to himself; she _should_ be unconscious after the evening they'd had. He couldn't imagine that she wouldn't be sore. _He_ was sore. Such delicate parts were not really meant for the things they'd done. Not all the time, anyway. Once in a while was all right…

He frowned to himself. Perhaps she wanted it like that all the time. Maybe that was why her husband left her. Oh, who was he to assume that the husband had done the leaving? He knew all too well that wives nowadays had no problem with severing marriages.

This conjecture was getting him nowhere. He should be asleep, too. He started to turn onto his stomach and paused. Swallowing and feeling stupid, but not stupid enough to change what he was doing, Lucius moved closer to her. Lifting the sheet, he molded himself against her bare skin. His arm draped around her waist. Grateful that she was asleep and that no one was watching, he rested his cheek in her curls.

It had been too long since he was able to curl up to a warm, soft body. Hermione's venture into his bed two months ago had nearly killed him. The girl had no idea how sorely he'd been tempted. In the end, though, his loyalty to his son won out and he avoided complicating the already-complicated situation any further.

Emma was an excellent substitute, and he hoped a frequent one. She presented an interesting challenge, being a muggle, but he found that he didn't care. No, just now he didn't care…and he didn't care how weak and needy it was to find so much comfort against her warm back. He lay there, trying not to think about how rarely he had done the same with Narcissa. Perhaps if he had just…no, that chance was come and gone. Maybe he could craft something better from the splinters of that relationship, or maybe he couldn't; right now it didn't matter.

At last he dropped into a fitful sleep, luxuriating in the fact that he was not alone.

* * *

"Oh!" Hermione gasped. "This is beautiful."

"Yes," Draco agreed. "I really can't complain."

They stood on the roof of his building and the city stretched out beneath them. Straight ahead there was a river, the name of which she didn't know, and a tremendous bridge straddled its banks. Blue lights were placed along its graceful arcs, outlining it in the dark of early evening. There were boats, too, antique things with their many sails rolled up and their masts peeking above the horizon.

If she turned she could see the cluster of skyscrapers. There were not as many as she might have thought but each one was uniquely crafted and lit up in different colors. Everywhere else, buildings and residential homes sprawled in a tremendous radius. The hum of city noise created a low, constant rumble, and the never-ending lights winked in the distortion of a summer night.

"So this is Greene's building?" she asked.

"Yes. He likes all his students to live together in order to…let's see, how did he put it…in order to 'till the soil of ideation'."

Hermione chuckled. "Are most of your classmates from here?"

"There are nine of us, total. Two are from here, two from New York City, one from Hawaii, one from Germany, one from South Africa, one from Japan. And me, of course."

She nodded, a little jealous that he was going to be able to spend time with intellectual equals from all over the world. "Are there any women?" she asked. Potions was notorious for being a male-dominated field; for every ten men, there might be one woman.

"Just one," Draco responded, confirming her suspicions. "And she's already spoken for, so you don't have to worry."

"I wasn't worried."

He turned, raised an eyebrow, and smirked. "Maybe I should be worried about you…all alone in that drafty old castle."

"Don't be ridiculous," she rebuked.

Draco chuckled and closed the distance between. He wrapped his arms about her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "I thought of something, while I was trying to figure out how to apologize."

"I should apologize, too," she said, leaning against him. "I really didn't think Harry would…" Hermione trailed off, shaking her head. "I'm sorry."

"We're even, then." His lips ghosted against her ear. "Do you want to hear my idea?"

She nodded, if just to feel the light friction again.

"All right. I want you to think of every date or outing or trip that Weasley never would have taken you on. Write them down in a list. Then, every week you and I will do one or two of them – within reason, of course."

Hermione's eyes widened. Oh, there was a virtual _scroll_ of things she had always wanted to do with a significant other that Ron had never seemed interested in. Half of them were just foolish romantic yearnings, like picnics or moonlit strolls on a beach, but if Draco was going to give her license to fulfill all those things, she would have absolutely no problems forcing him to make good on it.

"Are you _sure_?" she asked.

"Well, if you say it that way, I think maybe I should put a limit on it." He paused thoughtfully. "The list can only be twenty items. That should give us enough time to get to know one another like a proper couple, instead of just shagging one another's brains out…" he trailed off.

"I like shagging," Hermione pouted. "We can still shag during this endeavor, right?"

Draco snorted. "I may be seriously endangering my dignity, but never my libido."

She laughed. "Good." She twisted in his arms, intent upon kissing him, but the sound of a door opening and crashing shut gave her pause. Hermione's breath left her body as she located the intruder. It was Finley Jacob Greene himself.

He was a tall black man, thin and gangly, with a shock of wiry grey hair. He wore his robes loosely and unfastened. They had the look of robes that had once been very nice and expensive, but through constant wear and cleansing, became comfortably worn and faded. He walked across the rooftop, pausing at the edge and looking out at the bridge just like she had a few minutes before.

He lit a thin cigar and then cocked his head at them. "This your girlfriend, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked. His voice was a crisp baritone, warm and commanding at the same time.

"Yes, sir," Draco responded, releasing her and giving her a slight shove in the other man's direction. "This is Ms. Hermione Granger."

"Hermione Granger?" Greene asked, her name sounding different in his accent. He took her hand firmly and shook. "The Potions Mistress at Hogwarts School?"

Hermione nodded, unable to form words in her nervousness at meeting him.

"I hear that you were one of the youngest ever to receive that certification," he mused. "The youngest woman, certainly. But I think that's only for lack of women in this field."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, finding her voice again. "I've been trying very hard to encourage the girls who show an aptitude in my classes."

"I'm sure you'll have great success. You are much more endearing than the last Hogwarts Potions Master, rest his soul."

"Thank goodness," Draco murmured.

"Well, I suppose it was not his job to be endearing," Greene shrugged. "He was one of the few that were certified younger than you, Ms. Granger."

"When?" she asked, curious.

"He was seventeen. Before he even graduated he sat the exam and the practical and got perfect scores on both. I had only just gotten my certification and I was ten years his senior at that point. I confess I felt a bit inadequate."

"I think we all did, around him," Hermione said, shaking her head.

"Yes. Snape was one of those. He would have done great things if he had survived," Greene sighed. "But I see that he left behind at least two students that could do great things in his stead."

Hermione blushed furiously. "Thank you, Mr. Greene."

"Well, I'll leave you two to your kissing," the older man smiled. "Such things are highly necessary for the creative process. Ms. Granger, you are always welcome. If you ever tire of teaching the next generation, my door is open." He stubbed out the cigar that he had barely smoked and dropped it into his pocket. Then he turned and disappeared through the door, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

Hermione stood still, stunned and fluttery. Finley Greene had just extended an invitation to her. He had more or less told her that she was welcome to study with him. She could have jumped up and down and squealed, but Draco's arms snaking around her prevented her from doing so.

"You heard the man," Draco whispered, lips against her ear, his hips flush against her rear. "Kissing is highly necessary for my creative process."

With a giggle that seldom escaped her, she turned and pounced on him. His reflexes were quick and he caught her by the back of her thighs, smiling as her legs wrapped around his waist. And so they kissed, the Ben Franklin Bridge twinkling in the background and the many sounds of Philadelphia forming a pleasant cacophony around them.

* * *

September 25

The thought of the _funicolare_ was almost too much to bear. Narcissa had calmed down significantly in the walk from Scattori's empty house. She had sent the bird back with her bold note and stubbornly stood there for a further 45 minutes, fuming and wishing that Scattori would show his rotten face. Slowly, though, sense sank back into her and she realized that there was no point in waiting for the enemy. This was his turf; if his good humor did not hold, she could find herself severely outnumbered and in a very bad situation.

Deciding that she would rather risk exposure than go through the rickety cable car ride again, Narcissa ducked into an alleyway and apparated. The sounds and smells of Adriatica Alley immediately assaulted her. In the safety of her own home – or rather, Giacomo's home, as it was not hers just yet – she could plot.

He greeted her at the door and appeared surprised.

"Narcissa, my dear, I did not know you went out."

"Yes," she breezed by him, "I needed some fresh air."

"Where did you go?" he asked, genuinely interested. This was the kind of small talk that she had never been able to indulge in with Lucius. Lucius usually didn't give a shiny galleon where she had been. It had its benefits, but sometimes it irked her that he wasn't interested.

"Down to Capri," she responded. "I heard that it was beautiful."

"Oh yes?" He took her gloves and her small handbag, ever the gentleman. She did not see the apprehensive look that flashed across his face. "Was it to your liking? I have thought about buying some property there."

"It was nice," she said, "but one visit is enough for me."

"Next time you wish to go somewhere, perhaps we can go together," he smiled. "I can put someone else in charge at work." A moment later his decorum was broken by his ingrained machismo; he moved forward to drape an arm around her waist and press his fit body against hers suggestively. "You look very pretty in that dress, Narcissa."

Normally that kind of comment would have charmed the dress right off her. Giacomo had his flaws but he was quite good in bed. Today, however, it only annoyed her. "I'm tired, Giacomo. Wake me for dinner, please."

"Of course, love." He released her and she strode away, her heels clicking loudly on the marble floors.

Once inside their room, Narcissa removed the shoes and crawled into the massive bed. She _was_ tired, though she knew she wouldn't get any sleep. Thoughts were whirling in her head, piecing themselves together in the aftermath of her anger at being thwarted.

_It was a Mancini hit at its finest; I did not order it nor do I condone it._ Scattori's words scrolled through her mind. A Mancini hit. He was blaming the other half of the crime family. Perhaps there was trouble in paradise…

Yes. That had to be it. Gaetano and his repugnant wife Rita had fled England for obvious reasons, two attempted murder charges among them, but perhaps there was something more. Perhaps another Mafia war was brewing behind closed doors in old Milano…

She heard Lucius's voice in her head, reciting lines from his letter with cool precision. _I know that you will do what you want, but these people are dangerous. Your fiancé may be in their pockets, or they in his; if they are bold enough to attack Draco and I, nothing will stop them from coming after you if they deem it necessary. Every moment you spend in Milan may bring you closer to peril. Narcissa, I could not bear it if you were hurt…so please exercise your better judgment, whatever that may be. I have never had great judgment, myself, so I don't presume to tell you what to do._

Narcissa exhaled shakily. The next lines had rocked her to the core.

_I love you and I always have. My floo connection is open and set to admit you._

And that was it. Damn him and his masterful ambiguity. True, there was nothing ambiguous about the declaration of love, but…it was entirely unfair how two little sentences could send her into a spiral of what-ifs. He probably meant nothing by it. He probably meant exactly what he said – he loved her and his floo connection was open. She shouldn't read into it. She _wouldn't_ read into it.

* * *

September 29

Lucius woke to the sound of someone pounding on his door. Groggy, he lifted his head away from the spot between Emma's shoulder blades and blinked. The clock said 10:18 am. He probably should have been awake, anyway, but since his completion of business with his wizarding clients (the Bulstrodes and the Flints) and his apparent severance of services with Emma, he only had four clients. Three of which were barely concerned about their taxes just yet. One of which was the force of nature known as Franz. He knew that Franz would be the only one that bothered him today and thankfully that was only by phone or e-mail. So who the hell was at his door?

He extracted himself from the bed, careful not to wake Emma, and pulled on some pajama bottoms. He made a mental note to feed Oberon when he walked by the playroom and then, without ceremony, he pulled open the front door.

"Can I help you, Minister?" he said, feeling much more awake at the sight of Kingsley Shacklebolt on his doorstep.

"No, but I can help you," the other man responded. "Lucius Malfoy, I am here to inform you that the Ministry and the Wizengamot have seen fit to reconsider your sentencing this morning. They voted to commute your sentence, and a tally of 187 to 34 passed the motion. You are therefore released from the last two years, seven months of your sentence based on evidence of rehabilitation and good behavior." Shacklebolt paused and took a deep breath. He reached into his pocket and emerged with something that nearly stopped Lucius's heart in his chest. It was his wand. Shacklebolt held it out, a stern look on his face. "Do _not_ make me regret this, Malfoy."

Lucius couldn't make himself reach for the sliver of wood.

"Take it, Lucius," Kingsley prompted. "You've earned it."

"This isn't…this isn't some sick joke?" Lucius asked, his eyes distrustful and his voice strained.

With an exasperated sigh, Shacklebolt reached out, grabbed his wrist, and pressed the wand into his palm. The magic that coursed through him at its touch made him gasp; his fingers clenched reflexively around the wand, no longer able to deny its pull.

"Like I said," Kingsley intoned, "do not make me regret this."

"I…"

"From now on we won't be monitoring you anymore. With your wand you should be able to keep yourself out of trouble. Of course, if you have any serious concerns the Auror department will always be willing to assist you."

"Yes, of course."

"Baggins in the finance department also wanted you to know that if you wanted your old job back, he's sure there's some underachiever that he can be rid of."

Lucius blinked. Then he leveled his gaze at Shacklebolt. "Hex me."

"What?" The Minister looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

"Hex me. This can't be real."

"I am not going to hex you."

Lucius looked at the wand in his hand. Slowly, he turned it so that it was pointing at his own chest.

"Nothing drastic now, Malfoy," Shacklebolt warned, catching his hand. "I didn't give it back so that you could injure yourself with it."

"Other people have been doing a spectacular job of that in the absence of my self-injurious tendencies," Lucius returned, having regained a portion of his wits. He dropped his hand back to his side. It itched with possibility and he had the distinct feeling that he was going to have to go into the dogs' playroom and shoot off fireworks.

"Yes, well, that shouldn't be a problem anymore." Shacklebolt's eyes flickered to a spot over Lucius's shoulder before he leaned in and whispered, "Your lady friend is awake. I suggest you put the wand away."

Lucius glared at him; in his current state of dress, there was nowhere to put it. Kingsley smirked and stepped back out of the doorway.

"I say this with the most respect possible," the Minister of Magic stated, his voice still low to prevent Lucius's guest from hearing, "it has been interesting, but I really don't ever want to see you again, Malfoy."

"Likewise," Lucius replied, "though I'm sure I won't be so fortunate, what with you being Minister."

Shacklebolt smiled and excused himself. Lucius shut the door, still in shock in spite of his snappy retorts.

"What's that?" Emma asked a moment later, leaning in the door of the study. She had noticed the wand in his hand.

"It's nothing," Lucius responded. He gave the wand a glance that was half filled with longing, half with trepidation, before opening a drawer in the small decorative table near the door and dropping the piece of wood inside. "Nothing at all."


	14. Chapter 13

Responses:

lucas'mom: Thanks very much. I'm sure that Dramione is one of those pairings that people either love or hate. Same with Narcissa, as a character, though she is more fun to work with when she isn't made to be completely one-dimensional. Yup, Lucius is packing heat again (not that he wasn't before, hehe), though everyone's troubles might not be over yet!

Duco Lacuna: Yeah, you're not the only one who isn't too thrilled with the Lucissa leanings. In fact I'm somewhat sure that this story is receiving a lot less love because of it. sigh But you know I have to maintain my author's integrity and stick with the story as I've designed it, and hope that people will continue to read for the interesting and unique plot, even if they don't agree 100 with the pairings. Is that hoping against hope?

Tears of Ebon-Grey & Cyranothe2nd: And then there are other readers who really seem to like the Lucissa. I'm glad I can please _someone_, hehe.

caseyjarryn & cytl101: Thanks, here's the next installment!

brooklynsam3: Thank you. I hate that, when you're in the middle of a good story and then have to do ten zillion other things. Glad you found time to get up to speed! Enjoy the rest.

* * *

September 26

Harry couldn't sit still. He hated when Ginny was angry at him. He knew he deserved it, but she ought to have forgiven him by now. He sighed and Titania lifted her head to give him a dispassionate blue-eyed stare. He stared back, but couldn't muster any disgruntlement at the dog, not when there were seven squirming puppies wedged against her side nursing. They were honestly the cutest things he'd ever seen. Cute for now, anyway…once they began to get up and run around, he was sure he wouldn't find them quite as endearing.

Ginny strode into the room and he gave her his best wounded puppy look. It worked for the eight canines; why not him?

"I see you've been taking lessons from the dog," Ginny said, hands on hips.

"It seems to work for her," he responded cautiously. This was the first time she'd spoken to him in anything other than a shout or a cold, stiff murmur.

"She just had seven babies. All you've done this week is beat up a defenseless man after you promised me you wouldn't."

Harry winced. "Ginny, I've told you a thousand times already that I'm sorry. I don't know what else I can do."

She sighed. "You can mean it."

"I do!" Harry shot to his feet. "Ginny, I know what I could have done. I could have killed him. And as much as I said I wouldn't regret it, I would have. The guilt would have eaten me alive." He took a deep breath. "It wasn't him that did it. He was just…just another pawn. Like everyone else..." he blew out a long breath, feeling emotion well up inside him. His anger was at Riddle, but he was dead; in his absence, Lucius was the only one he could lash out at. Now that he was rational he could understand the way he had projected, but he had been anything but rational earlier in the week.

"It's just…sometimes it feels like he didn't leave any part of my life untouched. He's laughing at me, even now. He'll always be hanging over me in one way or another…"

Ginny's impassive face had softened. At his words, she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him.

"He's gone, Harry. Gone forever." She squeezed him tightly. Very tightly – it was hard to breathe. Then she loosened her grasp and took a step back so she could look him in the eye. "What matters is that we won. _You_ won. Everything else is just water under the bridge."

"You're right," he said, and forced a smile. A curious numbness always settled over him when he talked about it. It was his mind's way of protecting him. He was fairly certain he should have gotten therapy when the war ended, and lots of it, but there just hadn't been time. Life had been such a whirlwind. So here he was, a bit fragile but in no danger of breaking as long as things stayed relatively calm.

"I forgive you," Ginny said, resting her cheek against his broad chest. "But I do want you to apologize. And I guess we're going to have to bring Titania back eventually…"

"Maybe he'll let us keep one of the puppies."

"Or two…or three…."

Harry smiled and kissed the coppery, strawberry-scented crown of Ginny's head.

* * *

Narcissa had all but forgotten her snit when she woke up the next morning. So she had been thwarted; even the greatest people had plans fall through from time to time. She would just regroup and try again. But this time, she would really do her homework. She would know everything there was to know about Scattori and the Mancinis he was pointing the finger at. Narcissa knew better than most the game that people with agendas could play; she wouldn't be manipulated.

"Good morning, darling," Giacomo purred, coming through the door. He carried a tray with him. She felt a pang of regret for being so dismissive to him yesterday. Of course he hadn't cooked the breakfast on the tray; he didn't know his arse from a spatula in the kitchen. Still, it was a romantic gesture and he was a good man. Even if he did sometimes talk to her like she barely had three brain cells in her head.

"Good morning," she replied, favoring him with a smile. "I'm sorry I was in a mood yesterday."

"Do not worry." He set the tray down across her lap and sat next to her. "I know you have been stressed since your son's injury."

Hm. That was one other thing she wished was different. Aside from his tendency to underestimate her intelligence, he also disliked Draco. He disguised it well, but she knew. Draco didn't make it easy for him; he barely spoke two words in Giacomo's presence. Narcissa had told him that he was not a child and he should put more effort into it, but really, she couldn't expect him to like a future stepfather more than his real father. It seldom worked that way.

"Is it not to your liking?" Giacomo asked, interrupting her thoughts. He looked anxious.

"Oh, no, it's wonderful. I was just lost in thought."

"Well, come back to me, beautiful," he grinned, pouring on the charm.

"I'm right here." She ate a slice of pineapple and looked him over thoughtfully. He was stretched out on his side, propping his head up with his hand. It sometimes struck her how young he looked. He could have passed for thirty but she knew for a fact that he was forty-nine, the same age as her. It made her paranoid that she would look old beside him. He assured her that she didn't, and that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and all the other things that men with any sense said to their women.

She held out a piece of strawberry to him. He leaned forward and took it with his mouth, his lips grazing her fingers. He must believe all those things he said, even if they were just to placate her. The smoldering in his eyes told her that.

As she made to pull back, he took hold of her hand and pressed a soft kiss to her palm. "I love you, Narcissa."

"I love you, too."

And she did. She did, in spite of Lucius's reappearance in her life, the reminders of their odd simmering chemistry, and his ambiguous letters. She, Narcissa Black, loved Giacomo Cannavare, damn it.

She could have her cake and eat it, too. She would live easily and happily with her fiancé and plot her revenge on Scattori at the same time. The second attempt required time and care and caution; she had all three in spades. Giacomo didn't need to know. His belief that she was slightly obtuse would actually work to her benefit. If she said she was out shopping, he'd believe it. If she said she was gallivanting in Malta, he'd believe it. She was smart enough to cover her tracks and operate completely beneath his radar. That was a luxury she'd never had with Lucius.

Smiling, she beckoned to him seductively, and Giacomo was only too happy to slide across the bed and indulge her.

* * *

September 19

Hermione gave a slight startled sound when she came fully awake. Draco had talked her into letting him stay at Hogwarts with her after their trip to Philadelphia, the slippery thing, and now she saw, or rather felt, why. His hands were all over her beneath the blanket. Not to mention a rather prominent part of him that was pressed against her backside.

Her muscles twitched beneath a hot hand; whether she cared to admit it or not, she had missed his touch. Right now the palm of his hand and his paradoxical fingers, equal parts rough and smooth, were worrying the skin of her hip, trailing back and forth with obvious desire. Damn him. It wasn't fair how easily he could light her on fire and incinerate her objections. She didn't have any this morning, except…

"Draco, I have to teach a class in 45 minutes."

"Uh huh," he said, actually nuzzling the spot behind her ear. "Your point?"

She was too stunned at having just been nuzzled by a Malfoy to respond. His hand gripped her hip, closing easily around the sturdy bone. It reminded her what it felt like when he held both hips, fixing her in place as he thrust into her. That was her undoing; a surge of arousal hit her, coiling between her thighs and rousing her nipples to taut points beneath her camisole.

"Just…I can't be late…I…" she murmured, even as she turned around in his embrace.

He smirked. "You won't be." He dipped his head to tease her neck, kissing and sucking with her happy compliance until a faint twinge of pain reminded her of something else.

"I also can't look like I've just been…" she trailed off, the vibration of her throat against his lips ending. He nipped at the pale, sweet flesh, egged on by her restrictions.

"I'm serious," she said, her annoyance badly undermined by the near-moan in her voice. Draco lifted his head, staring at her with cloudy, calculating eyes.

"What can I do to get you to shut up?" The question was accompanied by a substantial pinch to her nipple, one that hurt but sent a lightning bolt of pleasure straight to her center. "Perhaps I should put something in your mouth." His voice was a low, lusty growl, and one of his hands wound into her wild morning hair, fisting close to her scalp.

Oh, sweet Merlin, was it wrong of her to want that? She had certainly had a man in her mouth before, but she was almost always the initiator or the one in control. She knew from the tone in Draco's voice that this time would be different. For whatever reason, she wanted him to dominate her this morning.

"Perhaps you should," she said softly, meeting his eyes.

"Don't tempt me."

Hermione snuck a hand between their bodies and found his erection. She freed it from his shorts easily. He inhaled sharply and gave an involuntary thrust into the circle of her hand, his hot, rigid flesh scoring her palm.

"I'm tempting you," she said, taunting as she stroked him firmly. His cock pulsed in her grip, thick and steely, and she registered that he was very, very turned on. Like this, his unyielding length might almost be too much if he took her veiled invitation to heart. She was digging her own grave and that was all right; it was a bit unsettling how much she suddenly wanted him filling her mouth.

"Ah," he sighed. "You know Slytherins like power. If you give it to me, Hermione, you might never get it back."

"Hmph." She snorted in a way that she knew would rile him. "I'll take my chances."

The flash in his eyes assured her that her baiting had worked. He pried her hand away from him and she gave an unconvincing struggle as he pinned her wrist against the bed. His other hand was still in her hair and he took advantage of that now, tugging so that she was forced up onto her side. Startled by the sudden change of position, her free hand reached for purchase and found his side. If she let go, she'd be completely at the mercy of his strong arm – and he knew it.

He shifted purposefully a moment later and her hand slipped. She fell forward, halted by the clamp of his hand in her hair. It hurt slightly, that tug, but it was quickly relieved, for she felt the head of his cock brush over her lips. He pressed forward and she had no choice but to part her lips and admit him.

His length slid into her mouth, not too deeply at first. She knew there was a fine line between domination and degradation; he wouldn't cross it. A gentle pressure of his hand and a controlled rock of his hips began a slow rhythm. She purred around her mouthful and felt him twitch against her tongue. Still, she knew she was at his mercy and that only half of him was in her mouth. She had already demonstrated that she could accommodate more; she fully expected him to take advantage of that.

"Look at me," he said, his voice rough and commanding. She obeyed, raising her eyes to his. God, they were beautiful when they were drowned in lust. There was no denying the effect this was having on him; his cheeks were tinted pink, his lips slack to allow the quick breaths he was taking…

He must have seen it in her eyes, for a moment later he moved his hips and she only had a second to inhale before he was in her throat. Her body wanted to rebel, to gag against him, but she controlled it calmly. She had asked for this, after all. She would think about what was wrong with her later.

He pulled back, allowing her to breathe, and then pushed forward again. He couldn't contain a moan as he hit the back of her throat. Now to really surprise him; she focused, willed herself into serene control, and closed the muscles of her throat around the invasion of his length. It made her want to cough but she managed not to. His reaction was worth the uncomfortable feeling.

"Hermione," he said in a strangled voice, his hips moving of their own accord, "you are a dirty little…oh, fuck, do that again...!"

She obliged as he thrust against her mouth, not hard, but definitely with more force than before. It was becoming more difficult not to choke on him and her jaw was aching, but she did her best. The collection of expletives and dirty talk that came from his mouth was having a profound effect on her nether regions. She longed to have him between her thighs, thrusting there instead of between her lips…

His free hand gave a vicious tweak to one of her nipples and she gasped. Unfortunately, it was just as he surged forward and she wasn't prepared for it. She couldn't control the reflex; he recognized it and pulled back, releasing her hair and letting her cough and catch her breath.

"I'm fine," she said a moment later. She was leaned up against his hip, his saliva-slicked member still very much in evidence in front of her.

"I know," he replied. "But if I keep going, I'll lose my capacity to be a gentleman."

Hermione straightened up and gave him an amused look. "Because that was so gentlemanly, Draco."

"You asked for it," he shrugged, rolling towards her and tugging at her pajamas. She was barely undressed before his hand was between her legs, his fingers lightly pinching her swollen clit. "And liked it, apparently. But I don't want to scare you away…"

It was a valid concern. She had never before felt the desire for a man to dominate her. Well, that was not true. These damned Malfoys; they had it all figured out, didn't they, making it so that you _wanted_ them to be in charge of you?

He made short work of his sparse garments while she was thinking, and before she had a chance to process, he flung her leg over his hip and pushed inside her. His hand dug into her buttocks and he was thrusting, filling her, stroking her in all the right places. The sensations caught up quickly and she moaned in shocked pleasure.

His lips crashed onto hers for the first time. Holy God. He kissed her as if he wanted to consume her. She was nearly short-circuiting with all the sensory input; his hot skin pressed against hers, the delicious rub of his cock inside her, the conquest of his tongue where other things had been not so long before…

He surrendered her lips with a moan, but only for a few seconds. Then he was back to kissing her until she was dizzy and a hot cascading pleasure was tightening her loins. She thought, chaotically, that there was something to that autoerotic asphyxiation business. With him swallowing her breath, an almost unbearable ecstasy was taking form, tense and all-encompassing in a way that she'd never felt before. This wasn't going to take long. At least she would take him with her; there was no way he would be able to withstand the orgasm he was sowing. Lord only knew what it would do to her…

She was going to find out shortly. It was burgeoning, blossoming, drawing everything to the carnal center of her and preparing for an erotic Big Bang. She pulled away from his lips and he fought to reclaim them. Their voices rose in unison as they tousled and an excruciating moment later she lost the battle.

Her consciousness wavered as pleasure assaulted her. She heard him emit a choked cry that contained her name and other words that didn't make sense. The orgasm lasted a long time, clenching and re-clenching, drawing unimpeded moans out of her and mingling with the ones she wrung from him.

Oh, sweet Merlin. Sex like that only existed in romance novels or pornography. She could scarcely believe what had transpired in the last twenty minutes. Draco lay against her, sweaty, panting, beaten into submission by an orgasm that must have been as powerful as hers.

"I am… so glad…we agreed on…still shagging," she breathed. His arm wound around her waist and squeezed. The next thing he did sparked a strange, almost painful sensation in her heart; he rubbed the sole of his foot against the inside of her ankle.

"My ears are ringing," he murmured.

She smiled, overwhelmed with emotion. She had no label for what she was feeling and thinking about it would only ruin the moment. Hermione leaned into his embrace and listened to his clamoring heartbeat. She stayed there until he shifted, propping up on one elbow to look at the clock.

"It's 8:45."

Hermione groaned. She knew as well as he did when classes at Hogwarts began.

"Do I have to?"

Draco chuckled. "You don't _have_ to do anything."

"I can't cancel class so that I can lie in bed with my--" she stopped, aware of what she had just been about to say.

"Your what?" he asked, a benign smirk playing across his lips. This amused him because he had already admitted that she was his girlfriend. She had not said the word so far because it was mildly terrifying. Draco didn't have as much to lose as she did; certainly those still concerned with blood purity would look down on him but it was plain that he didn't give a shit.

Her consequences had nothing to do with stuffy traditions. Ron would never forgive her and after Harry's recent outburst…she doubted he would, either. Was Draco worth losing her best friends? Her mind flickered back to the feeling of his foot stroking absently against her ankle and her heart contorted in her chest. Heaven help her, she was falling for Draco Malfoy.

She rose slightly so that she could look into his eyes. Gathering her courage, Hermione spoke softly. "My boyfriend."

* * *

Lucius went about his day, but his mind was never far from the drawer in the hallway. Shacklebolt's visit had taken him utterly by surprise. He had spent much of that morning in a daze and he was sure it had bothered Emma. There was nothing he could do about that; he couldn't explain why he was distracted because that would require explaining that he was a wizard, and one who had been on the wrong side of the law. Nothing chased a woman away faster than a criminal record.

Right now he didn't even know if he could see her again. He didn't know if he wanted to. He didn't know anything. Lucius leaned against the kitchen counter. For so long he had built this day up in his mind – the day he got his wand back, the day he was free – but now he had realized that he was _already_ free.

The last three years had been the most peaceful of his life. And though they had been a bit lonely without any female companionship, it had taught him to accept his own company. It had shown him the value of simplicity, which he'd lost sight of. It had given him time to truly get to know his son. Up until now, Draco had been a curious sort of mystery to him. Now he felt like the old wounds had at last scabbed over and healed. Without this odd incarceration, he wouldn't have had the chance to get to that place with Draco.

He turned and contemplated his flat. Beyond the kitchen doorway was the living room, his office, his rooms, and to the right the hallway to the guestroom. It wasn't as much as he'd been used to, yet it never irked him. Nor did he mind the lack of house elves, moving portraits that were always too forthcoming with their opinions, or the sepulchral silence that hovered above one's head in the high-ceilinged Manor. He was supposed to leave this place now that he was whole again. Merlin help him, he didn't want to.

He was too used to it. Too used to the murmur of the BBC in the morning, too used to the damned mobile, too enamored of the quiet muggle street and the view out the window of his office. And he would _miss_ it – Franz's twelve phone calls a day, Draco's occasional instant message, eating food that he himself had cooked (poorly most of the time), the reruns of the ridiculous muggle television shows, the football games…

He had a home. A _mansion_, for fuck's sake, complete with every luxury and a ready wait staff. But an empty mansion full of old memories held no appeal; he wanted nothing to do with it. All he wanted was his silly little flat.

Lucius vacated the kitchen and flopped on the couch. Oberon trotted over to join him, placing himself in optimal petting position. Lucius dropped a hand and stroked the dog's soft fur. Maybe he could fill the Manor with dogs. That would give the house elves fits…

He smiled to himself and allowed the remote control to seduce him. The telly would decide it. He would turn it on, and if it was a program he liked, he would stay. If it was a show he didn't like, he would take it as a sign and go back to the Manor. There were equal numbers of programs that he loved and hated, so it was really a fifty-fifty chance. It was a stupid way to decide things but it seemed perversely appropriate.

He clicked the power button. It took a few seconds to come on to the default channel. Lucius did not realize he was holding his breath until a familiar voice washed over him, low and heavily accented with a certain Northeastern American brogue.

"There's an old Italian saying: you fuck up once, you lose two teeth."

Oh, thank Merlin.

* * *

October 3

"Gaetano…"

"Hello, Lorenzo."

Lorenzo Scattori was caught off-guard. He knew his brother was back. He and Desi had people everywhere so nothing stayed a secret for long. What he didn't know was _why_ Gaetano was here. He knew very well that he wasn't welcome.

"Where's Rita?" he asked suspiciously.

"Don't worry about Rita," his brother replied.

"Desi might want to know."

Gaetano snorted. "Desiderio Mancini? You're still doing business with that fool?"

"He isn't a fool, Gaetano. He's the kind of man you'd rather have on your side than someone else's."

"Oh yes? Is that why you defer to him, Enzo?"

"I don't defer to him," Lorenzo growled. "And it doesn't matter anyway. The families are joined."

Gaetano walked around his brother's house as if he owned it. He settled in a bar stool, the kind that swiveled, and faced Lorenzo. "You know what?"

"What?" Lorenzo asked warily.

"I realized I missed the family when I was beating the shit out of Malfoy."

"That was a stupid thing to do. They aren't a family you want to mess with."

"No, Enzo, what's stupid is you playing second fiddle to a Mancini."

"What is wrong with you, Gaetano? You're married to one! And a fine match you are," he responded coldly. "Besides, you have no right to waltz back in and suddenly be interested in the family again. You think we'd take you? You were a capo, Gaetano, and you fucked up. Your wife talked you into taking a bribe and it screwed us out of a very lucrative deal with the Bonfiglios. They still laugh at us in Turin. Papi Nino died from the shame, you know."

"Papi Nino was an old man who was way past his time."

"Papi Nino gave you life," Lorenzo growled, "and he taught you better than this."

"He taught you better, too, brother." Gaetano reached into his pockets and Lorenzo tensed. His brother's hands emerged together; one held his wand, and the other a gun. "Pick your poison, Enzo."

"You're not serious."

Gaetano disengaged the safety on the gun. "The Killing Curse is so anticlimactic. No boom, no blood, no slow torturous death…I don't know why more wizards don't use these."

"What are you trying to accomplish?" Lorenzo demanded. He didn't believe for a second that his brother would kill him.

"Milan belongs to the Scattoris. Not the Mancinis, not the Mancinis and the Scattoris…only the Scattoris. You're a traitor to our family by cooperating with them."

Lorenzo laughed out loud. "What family, Gaetano? It's just you and I. No one else is left. You know why? Because they thought like you!"

"The Mancinis always had numbers on us. Reproduce like rabbits, those scumbags. That's the only reason there are more of them and you know it."

"Yes," Lorenzo said callously, "reproduction seems to be a problem for you, doesn't it." He knew as soon as it was out of his mouth that it had been the exact wrong thing to say. Gaetano's finger spasmed on the trigger and Lorenzo dove out of the doorway. The gunshot shattered a window behind the spot Lorenzo had previously occupied. He cursed. The wall afforded him some protection, but not much. His brother was serious. His brother was trying to kill him. There were contingency plans for this, but he never thought he'd have to put them into effect.

Lorenzo ran for the stairs. If Gaetano would kill his own brother, he'd also kill his nieces. He had to get the girls out. As he took the steps two at a time, he shouted at the top of his lungs.

"JOCASTA! GET OUT NOW!"

And he hoped she would hear, hoped she would recognize the tone of emergency in his voice, because he was running for his life. He could hear Gaetano rounding the corner behind him. Lorenzo pulled his wand but knew it wouldn't do much good; Gaetano had always been the better dueler and there was no reason to think that had changed. He would lose a battle of spells almost before it started.

He was up the stairs and out of range for guns or spells by the time his brother got to the foot of them, but he could only do one thing. He could save his wife, or he could save his daughters. He knew without hesitation that Jocasta would tell him to forget about her and save the girls.

Renata and Daniela were already in the doorways of their rooms, sleepy-eyed and confused. Gaetano was at the top of the stairs. Lorenzo lunged for his daughters, taking hold of both of their elbows before he turned and shouted a shielding spell at exactly the right moment. It deflected his brother's stunning spell, but not the bullet that followed it seconds later. Luckily Gaetano's aim with the gun was shit – not like his aim with a wand.

Wrapping his arms around his daughters and ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Lorenzo screamed the password to drop the anti-apparition wards and hoped to God that he would not splinch his girls.

* * *

Narcissa was in bed, occupying herself with a fashion magazine. Giacomo was out visiting a friend. She glanced at his nightstand; it was adorned with a magazine about economics. _No wonder he thinks I'm dim_, she thought to herself, _I'm looking at Roland Mouret's winter collection while he reads about emerging capitalist superpowers._ It annoyed her slightly; just because she didn't read about economics in bed didn't mean that she didn't understand them. She just didn't find it to be relaxing or interesting subject matter in the least.

She turned the page, moving on to Nanette Lepore. At that moment, a deep booming sounded and she jumped. She realized after a panicked moment that someone was pounding on the front door; Giacomo had it charmed so that he could hear it, because the bedroom was so far away from the front door that otherwise he wouldn't.

She pulled on her robe and grabbed her wand just in case. It was fairly late and who knew what could happen in light of recent events. As she emerged into the hallway and hurried toward the front of the house, muffled shouting met her ears.

"Cannavare! Cannavare, open this door! This is not a joke! You _owe_ me!"

She frowned and slowed down. What the hell did that mean? Who was making a scene outside Giacomo's house?

"Giacomo, _please_!" The man's voice was rough and desperate. Narcissa could see the shadow of his feet and two others beneath the door. She approached the door quietly, so that the person outside wouldn't know she was there.

A strange and frightening sight met her when she looked through the peephole. It was a man and two young girls, one a teenager and the other about ten. The man was leaning on the older girl. He was bleeding profusely from his shoulder. The girl's face was carefully schooled but her eyes were terrified, and the younger one was openly weeping.

Narcissa opened the door for the girls.

"Oh, thank God, Giaco--" the man began and stopped abruptly. "Who are you?"

"I am Giacomo's fiancée," she answered briskly. "Who are you?"

"An old friend of Giacomo's," he replied, playing the same game. "He was my father's healer. Please, I know this seems unsettling…"

"He isn't here," Narcissa said, frowning. Giacomo had never told her that he was a healer. Regardless, he was not here to fix this man. "You need to go to a hospital."

His face and eyes flickered through several emotions. At last he said, "You're right. But will you please…please watch my girls?"

The teenager opened her mouth to protest. "Papa--"

"Quiet, Renata."

The girl obeyed, but her eyes were surly. Narcissa contemplated them. It was obvious that this man was in some kind of trouble. Apparently he thought Giacomo could protect him. Narcissa didn't want his trouble, but there was no reason to allow the man's daughter's to be exposed to the same danger; they were just children. Ten years ago she would have shut the door in their faces. Not anymore.

Narcissa nodded. "Your daughters will be safe with me until you return."

"Thank you. Thank you. Daniela, go." The younger girl stepped forward, still crying. "Renata," he addressed the teenager, who was refusing to let him go. Narcissa didn't blame her; she wasn't sure the man could hold stay upright without her. "Renata, go. I'll be fine."

"What about Mama?" Renata asked.

"Your Mama will be fine, too," he said, but Narcissa heard the note of sadness in his voice. He was not so sure of what he was saying.

"You are losing blood," she prompted him gently.

He nodded. Slowly, his eldest daughter relinquished her hold on him and crossed the threshold of Giacomo's house. He managed to keep his feet without her support, though a pained expression did cross his face.

"I'll be back," he said simply. "Girls, behave for Miss…?"

"Miss Black," she filled in.

"Behave for Miss Black and don't do anything stupid." His gaze fixed on Renata, looking almost through her; the teenager returned the stare, sullen but frightened. Then he met Narcissa's eyes. "Thank you. You will forever have my gratitude."

He took a step back and took out his wand. Narcissa's eyes widened. Did he mean to apparate? He couldn't, not in his condition, he'd splinch himself – but a second later, he disappeared with a quiet pop. She reined in her shock and hoped for the sake of his daughters that he got to the hospital in one piece…whoever he was.


	15. Chapter 14

Author's Note: Okay, sorry for the long delay, folks. I started school again and am also working several jobs (I know, I'm a nutter). BUT, since it's been 6+ weeks since I updated, I'm going to give you two chapters. Enjoy and let me know what you think as the plot thickens...

Responses (though you guys probably don't even remember what you wrote in your reviews at this point lol)

Bella Moon: Thank you. Yup, that is what they say in Italian. People either love or hate the Mafia twist so glad you fall into the former category!

TheGreatAmericanNightmare: Heh. Your penname is conjuring images of the current economic news. Thanks for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

straightlyconfused: Yes, I had to play down Lucius in order to keep him from stealing the show - he tends to do that in my fics. Draco won out here. :)

Tears of Ebon-Grey: Thanks! After all Lucius has been through I thought he'd have a certain anxiety about returning to his 'old' life. Now he's got the best of both worlds, but it may be a while yet before he returns to the Manor (and he'll certainly bring some muggle devices with him). As for Narcissa, well, stay tuned...

Cyranothe2nd: Nope, I don't like to make characters black and white, with the occasional exception of my ultimate villains. And ten points for using the phrase 'the vapors'.

marbleandtoast: Thanks! Look for more updates on here, because I'm having issues uploading on GE lately...

cwtigerlily: I hope you managed your AP History stuff...I took that class back in the day and loved it, but I'm a dork. Thanks for your compliments. I consistently try to present a realistic version of the relationships we see in the HP universe, from canon (Harry & Ginny) to fanon (Dramione!). I also confess to loving Lucius and wanting everyone else to love him, too - he's so much fun when he's pseudo-reformed. I hope you have enough time to surface from your schoolwork and read some more!

loveangelli: Thanks! The LM/HG/DM fic is up, just click on my penname - the story is called Sang Froid. There are two chapters up right now. I have a third to post, but I haven't been able to write much on it because of piles of school work and work work. I'm trying to focus on my big epic stories (this and Hungry Thirsty Crazy). Once I get a little breathing room, I'll be working on the others. :)

Azrulai: I'm glad you approve of Narcissa's taste in designers. ;)

fahzzyquill: Well, this isn't soon, but it is an update...

Duco Lacuna: Thanks! I know some people DETEST Lucissa...I don't read much of it but when it's done well it's worthwhile. I think a lot of people really like the 'I hate you/I love you' dynamic that Draco and Hermione often have in stories, and I'm not doing much of that, so that makes my Dramione a bit odd. They're both gasp level-headed adults. Of course, they have their moments and they are bound to clash, like any couple, but they actually suit each other pretty well. Maybe that bores some people? Who knows...more steamy times ahead for them and lots of drama for everyone else.

brooklynsam3: You'll find out Lorenzo and Jocasta's fate soon. :)

* * *

October 1

"You're sure he won't want to kill us for this?" Harry asked, gesturing at Titania. The dog looked fine but there was no mistaking that she had recently given birth; her teats were pronounced and heavy with milk.

"For heaven's sake, Harry, we didn't get his dog knocked up. She was already pregnant when I borrowed her. It was probably Oberon," Ginny sighed, exasperated.

"Ah, the sly cad," Harry smirked.

"Indeed." She shook her head. "This will work, Harry. It's impossible to stay angry at a person with a puppy."

* * *

So that was how Harry found himself at Lucius Malfoy's door, Titania's leash in one hand and a squirmy grey puppy cradled securely in the other. He let the loop of Titania's leash slide down his wrist and grasped the puppy beneath its front legs with both hands. When Lucius opened the door, he held the little bundle up. With only a very slight cringe, he said,

"I'm sorry?"

Malfoy blinked, pale eyes darting from the puppy to Titania to Harry. Then he burst out laughing. In fact, he laughed so hard that he doubled over. That wasn't the reaction Harry had expected, but he was more than happy to go with it.

"Ah," Lucius said, clutching his side, "did Miss Weasley put you up to this?"

"Yes," Harry said grudgingly.

"She thinks I can be plied with puppies," Lucius snorted, wiping tears from his eyes. "Oh. Apology accepted. That was easily one of the most entertaining moments of my life."

"Well, um--" Harry started, but at that moment Oberon appeared at the end of the hallway and Titania ran for him, nearly pulling Harry's arm out of the socket. He only just managed to hand the puppy over to Lucius before the dog hauled him into the apartment. Lucius had to press himself against the door and lift the puppy over Harry's head as they went by.

Harry had no idea that Titania was so strong. Lucius was laughing again and this time Harry joined in. Watching the two dogs circle one another with frantically wagging tails was inciting a distinct warm and fuzzy feeling. They would, of course, not speak of this to anyone

Lucius closed the door and put the puppy down on the ground. It ran for its mum and dad, little paws scrabbling clumsily on the floor.

"Is that the only one?" he asked.

"No. There are six more."

Lucius crossed his arms over his chest and gave his dogs an appraising look. "This is why I was wary of having a male and a female. Draco said Titania was fixed…"

"Apparently not," Harry replied.

"Ah well," the blond shrugged, "at least they are not related. The puppies should be healthy."

"Yes, Titania and Auntie Ginny have been taking very good care of them."

Lucius collapsed into an armchair. "Listen to us, Potter. The big bad Death Eater and the savior of the wizarding world mooning over puppies."

Harry tilted his head. "I don't see any Death Eaters here."

Lucius arched an eyebrow. "Now you're just kissing my arse."

"No. I mean it. You're, um, different…and…stuff," Harry mumbled.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but let it pass without comment. For a few minutes they just watched the three dogs. Oberon and Titania had curled up together, and the as-yet-unnamed puppy was happily suckling away at its mum's side.

"So I read that you got your wand back," Harry said at last, groping for polite conversation. "It was in the Prophet."

"Scared?" Lucius gave him a half-hearted smile.

"No." Harry contemplated him curiously. He had expected that Malfoy would be deliriously pleased to get his wand back. Hell, he hadn't even been sure Malfoy would still be here. Didn't he have a mansion waiting for him? He thought he'd be back to his old comforts the minute the sliver of wood was in his hand. Instead, he actually seemed a bit…morose at the mention of it.

"Aren't you happy?" he asked, frowning.

Lucius shrugged. This perplexed Harry greatly; it didn't fit. A terrible thought occurred to him. Did a person lose magic if they didn't use it? A use it or lose it phenomenon?

"You…you _can_ still do magic, right?" he dared to ask.

"Of course." Lucius made a face at him. "I used it on you recently, if you recall."

He did, only too well. There had been nothing lacking about Malfoy's wandless disarming spell. "Then what's the problem?"

The other man heaved a sigh. He slouched in the chair and as Harry observed he seemed to tense up. Then his leg began to go, restlessly twitching. Harry could tell that he wanted to say something and was trying very hard not to. He was half tempted to bark at the man to spit it out (he'd spent far too much time with Ginny), but was sure that that was probably the best way to never be privy to what irked him. Not to mention it would probably wear out his welcome.

"Ugh," Lucius growled, slouching further. "It's _ridiculous_."

"I'm sure it's not," Harry said neutrally.

Lucius stood up and paced. Back and forth he went, and it did nothing to calm his agitation. At last he said in a low voice, "It's just…how do I know?"

"Know what?"

He didn't face Harry, instead choosing to look out the window. "How do I know that I won't fall into the same trap? Do the same things?" His hands curled into fists. "Hurt people?"

For a reason Harry didn't fully comprehend, goose bumps rose along his skin. Lucius Malfoy was afraid to use his wand. He was afraid to hurt people. He didn't trust himself. Sweet Merlin, how far he'd come! Harry spent a long minute gathering his thoughts before he responded.

"Lucius, you know because you care enough to be worried about the possibility."

Malfoy stood at the window for a long time. The words hung between them. Harry had the distinct feeling that Lucius would not have voiced his concern to anyone else; it made for a strange bond.

"Do me a favor, Potter."

"Maybe," the dark-haired wizard said.

"If I ever get like that again--"

"You won't."

"I--"

"You _won't_," Harry repeated firmly.

A silence stretched.

"Right," Lucius said, "I won't. But if I do, just kill me."

Harry stood up. "I won't have to. You know why?"

The blond man turned to face him at last. "Why?"

"Because you're going to have grandchildren to spoil if Draco and Hermione keep on as they are. And…" he paused thoughtfully, "I'm going to make you godfather to one of my children."

"_What?"_ This was as close to floored as he would ever see the elder Malfoy. He looked utterly scandalized. "You're not serious, Potter."

"You owe me a favor, don't you?"

"Yes, I suppose, but I hardly think…"

"That's the favor."

Lucius shook his head. "You're out of your mind. I'm rubbish at that sort of thing. You _do not_ want me."

"Yes," Harry nodded. "I do. If anything happens to Ginny and I, you'll be responsible for the child. Along with whomever we choose as godmother, of course."

Lucius was still trying to wrap his head around it. "You don't even have any children!" he protested.

"I will soon."

"You mean to say…?"

Harry nodded. "Ginny is pregnant." He gave a rueful smile. "Guess that mean's we'll have to get married now. It won't be this child," he clarified. "Ron would probably murder me if he wasn't made godfather of the first born. You can have one of the next ones."

"For heaven's sake, stop talking about it like it's a bag of groceries! Besides, you'll change your mind by the time you have it."

"No," Harry smiled, enjoying his discomfiture, "I don't think I will."

Lucius looked half-disgusted and half in awe. Abruptly, his tolerance was used up and he pointed at the door. "Get out of here before I commit you to St. Mungo's."

Harry smiled like a loon the entire way home, and wondered if Malfoy was all that off in his offer of psychiatric commitment.

* * *

October 2

"He said _what?_" Ginny asked, her eyes widening.

"You heard me," Hermione replied, smirking. "A twenty-item list of things that, er, your brother never would have done with me."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

Ginny sat back, gobsmacked. "Anything?" she repeated.

Hermione laughed. "That's what he said and he knows I'll hold him to it. The only problem is, I'm having trouble thinking of what I should put on the list. There are a couple of obvious things…"

"Like what?"

"Well, Ron never would have taken me to the opera or to a play or to the symphony."

"True enough. That's three, right there."

"He also refused to go dancing with me."

"Draco Malfoy dances?"

"I don't know," Hermione giggled. "But he'll have to now."

"Are you talking about ballroom dancing or out at the club dancing?"

"Swing dancing would be fun, don't you think?"

Ginny looked perplexed. "What is swing dancing?"

"It's – oh, never mind. I'm probably too heavy."

"Oh, _shut_ up."

The brunette blinked, unsure of Ginny's tone. "What is it, Gin?"

The youngest Weasley smiled wryly. "Harry knocked me up, so if _anyone _is going to be heavy in the near future, it's me."

Hermione nearly spit out her water. As it was, she coughed and sputtered as half the beverage went down the wrong pipe. "What?" she said weakly. "You're pregnant?"

Ginny nodded. "About 8 weeks. Must have been all that post-Puddlemere contract shagging."

"Oh, goodness. Have you told anyone else yet?"

She shook her head, her red hair shifting on her shoulders. "You know my mum will freak and insist we get married yesterday."

Hermione nodded. That was true enough; Molly dropped very unsubtle hints at least once a week.

"We'll tell soon. Harry just wants time to 'give me a proper proposal', whatever that means." Ginny shrugged. "So, anyhow…back to your list."

"Right. So, going out dancing…that's four."

"How about traveling? Malfoy's got money coming out of his ears, he ought to be able to take you somewhere nice."

"That's a good idea. He's in school, though," she frowned. "Might not have time."

"If he has time to do all these other things he can take you somewhere. What's he in school for?"

"A potions doctorate."

Ginny practically gagged. "I hate to say it, but I think you two might be perfect for one another. _Who_ gets a potions doctorate?" She shuddered visibly at the thought.

"All right, so a trip to somewhere nice. Where would you go?" she asked.

"Fiji. Maybe Thailand…" the redhead's eyes had glazed over. Abruptly she snapped back to herself. "Harry has money, too. Why aren't I making him take me places?"

"I have no idea," Hermione responded. "You deserve it."

"Next time he's on break from quidditch, we're out of here."

"Speaking of quidditch," Hermione spoke up, and then stopped, realizing that that was the first time she had _ever_ uttered those words. Ginny laughed at the expression on her face.

"Go on, Hermione, dear."

"Um, speaking of quidditch, when is Harry's opener? He said he wanted me to come see him play."

"It's this Sunday," Ginny answered. "It just so happens that it's against your old flame's team."

"My…old flame? Oh, Viktor."

"Yes, Viktor."

"Well, he's quite good, isn't he? They say he's one of the best seekers in the world. Along with Harry, of course."

"Yes, it should be a good match up," Ginny smiled. "I'll owl some tickets and jerseys to Hogwarts."

"Is…Ron…?"

Ginny nodded. "I will make sure he behaves himself."

Hermione snorted. "With Viktor Krum in a hundred mile radius of me? Good luck."

"You should bring Draco," Ginny said mischeviously. A rather devious grin played across her lips.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Possibly."

"Ron would _kill_."

"He's going to find out eventually, Hermione."

"Yes, but not like that. We really don't need him being sent to Azkaban for attempted murder."

"Ah, you're probably right," Ginny smirked. "But he is very entertaining when he's enraged over things that are his own fault." She took a sip of her strawberry milkshake – which was sure to be the first of many bizarre cravings. "Now let's focus on this list, you're only up to five."

With that, the two women culled out fourteen more dates that Hermione had always wanted to go on. However, they hit a wall with number twenty; neither of them could think of anything.

"Oh!" Ginny snapped her fingers. "All of these have been so tame, Hermione. What about something a bit more…risqué?"

"Like what?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Do you have any fantasies?"

Hermione's cheeks colored. "Er, plenty."

"Don't we all." Copper eyebrows waggled at her. "Why don't you use one of your fantasies for number twenty?"

"Um, I…I guess I could…but what if he…doesn't want to do it?"

"He's a man. If it involves you touching his bits in any way, he'll be just fine with it."

Hermione had to stifle a bark of laughter. God, she loved Ginny.

"Now you've got me curious," her companion smirked. "What's this fantasy that you're worried Draco won't want to do?"

"I can't tell you."

"Of course you can!"

"No, it's…"

"It's _what_?"

"Bad."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Unless it involves a copy of 'Hogwarts, a History', I doubt that."

"It doesn't," Hermione retorted, sour.

"Fantasies aren't bad, Hermione. I'll tell you one of mine." Ginny leaned forward and lowered her voice slightly. "Harry's the Minister of Magic and I'm his naughty secretary."

"It's nothing like that," Hermione mumbled, unfazed by Ginny's confession.

"Come on," Ginny pouted. "I told you!"

Hermione's eyes flickered up to her friend. Ginny wouldn't judge her, right? This wasn't _that_ abnormal. It would be good to run it by someone like Ginny to make sure it wasn't completely bizarre…

"Ok. I…um...a…" her voice shrunk to a barely audible whisper, "threesome."

"Oh, good _lord_, Hermione, that is not bad! Lots of people fantasize about that." Ginny's face turned curious for a moment. "Would you want the third to be a woman or a man?"

"Man," she murmured, feeling as though her cheeks were on fire. She couldn't look Ginny in the eye.

"Mm," the redhead said. "I won't lie, I've thought about that a few times, too."

"Really?" Hermione squeaked.

"I don't think there's a person out there who hasn't."

"Have you ever…"

"Done it? No." Ginny's lips rose in another smile. "Do you have another secret Slytherin crush, besides Draco? Because I know you wouldn't ask Ron to be your third, and I wouldn't let you have Harry."

"Ugh, no, Harry has never entered my fantasies even for a second," Hermione shuddered at the wrongness of it. Harry was her friend, her brother, and could never be sexual to her.

"You didn't answer my question," Ginny said slyly. "Who's the third you're thinking of?"

"THAT I will not tell you," Hermione returned firmly, regaining some of her confidence. "I'll leave number twenty blank for now. A…wild card of sorts."

"I hope it turns out wild," Ginny snickered.

"I _never_ should have told you!"

"Hey, you have your own ammunition, you know!"

They dissolved into giggles, and with that, Hermione had her list and Draco's fate had been cast.

* * *

October 4

Narcissa was quickly becoming nervous. She had never had a daughter, nor wanted one after growing up with two sisters. In spite of that, she wanted to comfort these girls. They were not her children, though, and she wasn't sure any contact would be welcome. She was a babysitter, essentially. The glare that the older one, Renata, continued to level at her confirmed that.

She pursed her lips. She would not be stared down by a fourteen year old. Drawing herself up, Narcissa settled her nerves and contemplated the girls. She might not be _their_ mother, but she was a mother and more than capable of dealing with them.

"If you girls would like anything, just tell me."

"You're English," the younger one, Daniela, said.

"Yes," she smiled, unsure if it was a compliment, an insult, or just an observation.

"That explains a lot," the other girl, Renata, sniped.

Narcissa resisted the urge to use her own mother's (psychotic) discipline on the girl. Instead she settled for bluntness. "It is not my fault that your father is injured. Nor is it my fault that your mother is in danger. I would thank you to remember that, Renata."

"You don't understand anything, do you?" the girl shot back.

"I understand a great deal more than you give me credit for."

Renata snorted, but settled down. She crossed her arms over her chest and fumed silently.

Narcissa massaged her temples. The younger one seemed content to be where she was. Renata, however…Narcissa had a sneaking suspicion that the girl would try to leave at the earliest chance and do exactly what her father had warned her against – something stupid.

She stood up. "I am not your mother and I understand that you feel no need to obey me. I have been entrusted with your care, though, and as such, you will not leave this house without my consent or your father's escort. I am more than adequate at warding. Do not test me."

Daniela's eyes had gone wide and slightly fearful. Renata looked as sullen as ever. The intimidation was, perhaps, a little heavy-handed for the younger girl, but completely necessary for the older one. She had no doubt that Renata _would_ test her.

"You're not in prison," Narcissa amended. "I don't want you to feel like you are. But I need to keep you safe."

"You think you can do that?" Renata snorted. "This is not your territory."

Narcissa felt her eye twitch. Really, the girl was not all that different from the way _she_ had behaved at that age. It was a sour realization.

"You do not know enough about me to make assumptions about my 'territory', Renata. Now, the two of you should go to bed. It is late. Your father will probably be back in the morning and everything will be all right."

Surprisingly, Renata gave in. She gathered Daniela, who was still staring at Narcissa with wary and awestruck eyes, and followed her quietly down the hallway to one of the myriad guestrooms. The two girls settled in the massive bed together, Daniela cradled against Renata.

Narcissa couldn't help but check on them a half an hour later as the silence of the house surrounded her. It had been a while since she had a child to worry about. The girls slept peacefully, belying whatever they had been through. Exhaling, she closed the door.

She tried to retire to her own bed after reinforcing the wards. It was no good. Things were nagging at her. Why had Giacomo never told her he was a healer? Who were these people, to whom her fiancé was indebted? And where the hell was Giacomo? Her Slytherin mind would not let her be. She was missing information and that drove her insane.

As soon as the girls woke, she would question them. Daniela more than Renata, perhaps, if she could separate them. Renata wouldn't give her the information she wanted purely out of spite. The younger girl was still innocent and would talk freely. She hoped that Giacomo would talk freely, as well, when he finally returned home. For Merlin's sake, it was 2:30 in the morning! Where was her fiancé?

And so Narcissa lay there in the dark, mind racing, stomach churning, unable to do anything but wonder. Patience was a virtue, they said, but not one she was particularly good at. Sighing, she realized – this was how it used to feel to wait for Lucius. To know that he was with the Dark Lord and also to know how capricious the Dark Lord's moods were…and how he sought to drive every ounce of humanity out of her husband…that had always been torture. As was the knowledge that he'd almost succeeded. Words could not express her relief when Lucius had come to his senses.

She did not relish being back in that place, waiting for another man with even less knowledge of what the hell was going on. In all likelihood it was nothing; he was just having a late night with his friends. She couldn't shut off the part of her mind that knew of the shady underworld of Milan, though. Things happened in the shadows of old cities and men made deals in the shadows of their souls. How did she know Giacomo was any different?

At 4 am, she realized that Giacomo was not coming home. At 4:03 am, she cried out of sheer frustration. At 4:05 am, she lit his economics magazine on fire and broke his glasses. At 4:07, she downed a Dreamless Sleep potion. She needed to face tomorrow with a clear head and the only way to do that was to get a little sleep. So she drifted off, wondering if she would ever find a man who wasn't wrapped in a labyrinth of secrets…

* * *

October 6

Harry adjusted his robes and wiped sweat from his eyes. He got a whiff of his gloves as he did so; they were sweaty, and as such, quite fragrant. For October it was bloody hot. This was a day better suited to July or August.

The full-to-capacity stadium wasn't helping. The sheer enthusiasm of the Puddlemere fans was enough to generate heat. The game was deadlocked; Krum's team, the Sofia Slaughterers, was quite good. Oliver Wood was having the game of his career tending the goal hoops. The score currently rested at 180 to 170, in favor of Puddlemere. In another minute it would flip-flop, as it had been doing all game, and the stalemate would continue. This game would be made by whoever caught the snitch.

Harry chanced a look at Krum. He wasn't far off, also mopping sweat from his brow with the collar of his robes. When he finished, he looked up and caught Harry's eyes. The moment of distraction would have cost him; that is, it would have cost him if Harry had not gestured with a quick flick of his hand to indicate that a bludger was coming. Krum tucked and rolled and Harry did the same, knowing the bludger would come after him after missing its original target. He didn't know why he helped Krum. Perhaps it was because he didn't want to see arguably the world's best seeker grievously injured in a match that didn't really mean much. He knew Viktor; he didn't want to see him injured at all.

He vaguely registered that the announcers were commenting on his beneficence. It was his trademark, of course, along with Expelliarmus. Gunning his broom, Harry guided the bludger toward his beaters. Once they had dispatched it in Krum's direction, Harry pulled up and got his bearings. Where was the bloody snitch? He just wanted to catch it, win this thing, and propose to Ginny. The ring was tucked securely in an interior pocket of his robes. By now the box was probably sweaty and disgusting. Perhaps it would be best if he just held out the ring itself…

Sweet Hades, it was hot. He couldn't find the snitch. Breathing deeply, Harry tuned his senses. Impatience would only make him miss things and then he would lose the game. That simply wouldn't do.

Krum appeared near him, breathing hard. A bruise was rapidly blooming across his cheek, accompanied by a small laceration. Noticing Harry's appraisal, Viktor spoke.

"Your beaters are not as nice as you."

Harry chuckled. It was true, beaters were not paid to play nicely.

"So vat is it, Potter?" Viktor asked.

"What do you mean?" Harry replied, eyes scanning. The snitch was so hard to spot down near the stands because it blended in with the crowd. It hadn't been so bad at Caerphilly; the stands there were rarely full.

"You have fire in your eyes today. You vant to vin this match."

"I want to win every match. Don't you?"

"Is different today," the Bulgarian said, ignoring Harry's casual query.

"I'm going to ask my girlfriend to marry me if we win."

"Ah." Krum smirked. "The nice thing to do vould be for me to let you vin, yes? But how do you know I do not have pretty girl to propose to, also?"

Harry smirked right back at him. "You're already married. Hermione mentioned it to me a while back. She thought Ron might finally stop hating you because you weren't a threat anymore."

Viktor laughed. "I vas never a threat. Too many bludgers to head. Not enough brain cells for Hermione."

"Ron's the one who doesn't have enough brain cells," Harry muttered. As he spoke, Krum's eyes flickered. Harry knew without question that the other man had spotted the snitch. He followed his glance. _There_ was the little bastard, hovering just above the crowd behind the Slaughterers' goal hoops.

"Five seconds, Potter," Viktor said. "If you cannot catch it with head start, is your own fault."

Grinning, Harry sped away.

* * *

Lucius, who had been half-dozing, was startled awake by a sudden increase in volume on the Wireless. He had finally started listening to it again. Before he had been so sick of it and had avoided it if at all possible; just another way to forget about magic. Now there was no need, and as the majority of the gossip was no longer about _him_, he didn't mind catching up with the wizarding world.

The white noise of a crowd in hysterical ecstasy filled the room. The broadcaster had to shout to even be heard.

"I'M JULES PADDINGTON, REPORTING LIVE FROM PUDDLEMERE STADIUM. MERE SECONDS AGO HARRY POTTER CAUGHT THE SNITCH IN A NAILBITER PREMIER VICTORY AGAINST VIKTOR KRUM'S SIDE, THE SOFIA SLAUGHTERERS! AS YOU CAN HEAR, THE CROWD IS GOING INSANE! MANY BELIEVE POTTER WILL BRING GLORY TO THIS TEAM, THE LIKES OF WHICH THEY HAVEN'T SEEN IN NEARLY FOUR DECADES!"

Lucius smiled and shook his head. Potter did tend to trail glory wherever he went, whether it was intentional or not. Realizing that it was nearing the time for his football match, Lucius stretched and went in search of his things. He hadn't gone last week on account of the sore ribs – one of Harry Potter's less glorious moments. Now he felt fit enough.

It was hot outside. He'd get good and sweaty, then. The women on the sidelines would be falling over themselves to try to get his attention. Poor things; the only muggle that had ever managed to catch his eye was Emma, and he was still uncertain about her. Perhaps she sensed it or felt the same way about him, because she hadn't contacted him in a few days. He wasn't a neurotic mess about it. Whatever happened, happened.

Merlin's beard, when was the last time he'd had that thought? _Had_ he ever had that thought? Lucius stopped mid-motion, shirt halfway on. No. Never in his life had he been comfortable enough to just let things play out as they would. It was surprisingly relaxing.

He finished getting ready and drifted back out to the living room. Jules Paddington was still shouting, relating details of the match. Lucius half-listened as he put on his trainers and then rummaged in the kitchen for a water bottle. Maybe he'd need two today…

"BREAKING NEWS, FOLKS! BREAKING NEWS FROM PUDDLEMERE STADIUM! HARRY POTTER HAS JUST PROPOSED TO LONGTIME GIRLFRIEND GINEVRA WEASLEY!!"

Lucius dropped the water bottle on his foot. Luckily, it didn't hurt much through the trainers. It seemed that Potter didn't do anything half-ass; he _would_ propose to Miss Weasley in the immediate aftermath of an outrageous quidditch triumph. The redhead would probably love it, too. Paddington's delirious shout piped up again a second later, confirming Lucius's suspicions.

"SHE'S SAID YES! MISS WEASLEY HAS SAID YES! YOU HEARD IT FIRST HERE, FOLKS, HARRY POTTER AND GINEVRA WEASLEY ARE ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED! WHAT A PROPOSAL! COULD YOU ASK FOR ANYTHING MORE, LADIES?"

He evidently handed the microphone off to a gaggle of women, all of whom screamed incoherently into it. Lucius chuckled and walked back into the living room to shut off the wireless. Making sure he had his keys, his water, and his boots, he made his way to the door in the best spirits he'd experienced in a while.

That was how he missed the sputter of his fireplace. It flared briefly and coughed out a sheet of parchment. The parchment floated to the carpeted floor, landing facedown. Nothing and no one followed it as the green flames died. He wouldn't notice that piece of parchment until he emerged from his bedroom the next morning – and by then, it would already be too late to stop the chain of events that had begun.


	16. Chapter 15

Author's Note: As promised, here's the second chapter of this double update. Please r&r both chaps if you're so inclined. :)

* * *

October 6, 11 pm

Draco felt like he wasn't himself. It was mainly because he had been tickling Hermione Granger for the better part of twenty minutes, listening to her laugh and feeling her squirm agreeably against him. And the two combined put the biggest, goofiest smile on his face. He probably looked like an idiot.

He paused, allowing her to catch her breath. Hermione wiped tears out of her eyes and gave him a playful shove.

"Now that you know where I'm ticklish, you're going to use it against me all the time, aren't you?"

"I might."

"Are _you_ ticklish?"

"If I am I wouldn't be stupid enough to tell you," he responded with a smirk.

She smiled wolfishly at him. "I'll find out, Malfoy."

"Is that a threat?" he asked, leaning in closer and letting her feel the weight of his body against hers.

"Absolutely," she replied. One of her legs twined around the back of his and pulled him closer.

"Mm…I think I like your threats."

"I know I like yours."

His lips lifted in a real smile before he lowered them to brush against hers. It really was ridiculous how horny she could make him, and on such short notice. He could go from not thinking about sex at all to wanting to bend her over and fuck her silly in ten seconds. Of course, he would be lying if he tried to make himself believe that the instigation of the tickling had no ultimate sexual goal. Hermione wasn't complaining; he'd noticed how her nipples peaked under her shirt under the onslaught of his hands.

She was so responsive, and her tongue, grappling gamely with his, felt so good. He'd always been a fan of a good snog. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Hermione did this well, because she did everything well. Or most everything – he had heard that she was appallingly bad at flying. Strange; she was very skilled at riding _his_ broomstick…

It was thoughts like that that made him grateful no one could hear his inner monologue. It was about time to turn it off, anyway, because her hot little hands were sliding beneath his shirt. Her nails grazed over his skin and that was the only stimulation he needed to go from partial arousal to full-on trouser-testing attention.

"Mm," she breathed against his ear, her hands sliding down to cup his backside, "I've been thinking about you all week."

"Yeah? What were you thinking about?"

She blushed endearingly but it didn't put a dent in her boldness. "About how I'd much rather have your cock inside me than be teaching silly…" she paused and kissed his neck, "little…" another kiss, right over his pulse, "dunderheads…" now it was an open-mouthed suck that would probably leave a mark, "how to brew Pepper-Up."

He looked down at her, a little amazed. He'd never pictured her as the rampantly horny type. Draco knew well enough that she had a libido, but one that overruled academics? The possibility was interesting…and hot.

"I was going to send you a dirty letter, but I didn't want to interfere with your studies," she confessed with a smile that was slightly devious.

"You should have." He slid his hand under her shirt and swept it off. There was far too much clothing in his way right now. Once the shirt was gone he couldn't be bothered to reach under her and unhook her bra; he tugged the fabric of the cups down, freeing her dusky, hardened nipples from their prison. He was going to have to do the same for his cock soon…

Yes, especially since she purred appreciatively when his tongue teased around the little bud and then swept over it rhythmically. He'd figured out that she liked that, a quick flick of the tongue or the rub of his palm against the tips of her nipples. After lavishing some attention upon them, he lifted his head to look at her.

"Maybe," he said suggestively, "we should play professor and student."

She smiled, more perceptive to his idea than he thought she would be. "But who is the professor and who is the student?"

"That's easy. Which one of us is really a professor?"

"Me. That means I'm in charge?"

"Exactly. You're the Potions Mistress…and I'm the Head Boy who hasn't done his homework."

Hermione's hand slithered between them and rubbed over the bulge in his trousers. He breathed in sharply, enjoying the tingle of pleasure that coursed through him.

"You are definitely not a boy," she grinned, "but I think I like this idea."

So did he – a lot. His cock was throbbing. "Then let's go to your classroom," he whispered, his tongue tracing the curve of her ear. "It's late. No one will interrupt."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Have you done this before?"

He raised an eyebrow right back. "Maybe."

Hermione smiled. "I'll warn you, Mr. Malfoy…I'm not an easy professor."

"Bad boys need tough professors."

"Do they?" She wiggled out from under him, her breasts still hanging out of her bra, and moved toward her dresser. She opened a drawer, rooted around for a moment, and then said, "Aha!" in a triumphant tone. She turned and threw something at him.

He caught it. Much to his surprise, it was a school tie. Her old one, probably, since it was Gryffindor colors. Now he had to wonder if _she_ had done this before.

"I don't want to be a Gryffindor," he said, pulling a face.

Hermione turned and put her hands on her hips. "Either you're a Gryffindor or you're going home with blue balls."

Ooh, she _was_ tough. "I'm a Gryffindor, then," he relented, and slipped the tie around his neck, knotting it reflexively. The things he would do to be buried inside her…he shook his head. Draco watched as Hermione discarded her bra and pants and then pulled on her robe. It was quite sexy to know that she was bare beneath it, save her knickers. When she was finished, she walked over to him and pulled him up with a gentle tug to the tie.

"Let's go, Head Boy."

She'd led him through the darkened castle corridors like that, the end of the tie wrapped around her hand. He didn't feel embarrassed or emasculated in spite of the fact that she more or less hand him on a leash. He'd given her consent and he knew the payoff would be good. Slytherins were Slytherins; power play excited them no matter if they were the master or the servant.

The Potions lab wasn't far. It was a bit cheerier than it had been under Snape's reign, but the smell was the same. Fire and ingredients and heated metal mingled; the scent triggered his memories of school. Hermione released the tie and shut the door. As she did, a few candles lit around the cavernous room.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Malfoy," she said, walking toward the front and standing before the desk. He hid a smirk as he slid into one of the chairs. Draco suspected that he was simultaneously giving her permission to partake in an area of sex-play that had been off limits with Weasley, and catering to the bossy, dominant little bitch living inside her that sometimes needed to get out. He didn't think he was going to mind unleashing her.

"You know why I gave you detention, correct?" she asked.

"Yes, Professor," he answered, doing his best remorseful-student-that-was-full-of-shit voice. "I didn't hand in my essay."

"And why is that?"

"It was quidditch, Professor. I'm captain of the team and I didn't have time--"

"The other quidditch players managed to hand theirs in, Mr. Malfoy," she cut him off. "That isn't an excuse." Hermione walked forward, wand in hand. "I think you've become lazy. It's your seventh year, you're Head Boy, you've already taken your NEWTs…you're complacent. You think no one would dare to fail you this close to graduation."

Oh, she was really pouring it on, wasn't she? He'd meet her every step of the way. "No, Professor, I…I just really didn't have time to do it."

"Then you should have come to me and asked for an extension. If you had a good reason, I would have given you an extra day. Too late now, though." She leaned on one of the desks. "I'm afraid you'll be receiving a zero for this assignment."

He didn't have to dig deep to find the horror necessary to react to a zero grade. He was an overachiever, just like her, and even the thought of failing so spectacularly had the power to unsettle him. Fear of failure was ingrained in him, courtesy of his father, though it had only ever pushed him to do better.

"Professor, please! That will drop my grade to…"

"To Acceptable. Still passing, Mr. Malfoy. Though, if I remember correctly, you were hoping to enroll in Auror training and they won't take you without an O or E in Potions."

Was she channeling Snape? If she was, she was a much more attractive and tantalizing version. "It's just one essay! There must be some way I can make up for it!"

"If you make just one mistake as an Auror, Mr. Malfoy, people die. You can't make up for that. I can't allow you to enter into the profession if you aren't capable of doing what you need to do when you need to do it."

She was good. He was actually starting to feel a bubble of anxiety in his gut, even though he'd never wanted to be an Auror and he'd never gotten a failing grade on a test or paper in his life. Not even sixth year, and that was something.

"Professor, it's my dream to be an Auror. I never wanted to be anything else. I can't be anything else. Please, give me a chance to make this up. I'll do detention every day for the rest of the school year, if that's what you want. Please."

She tilted her head to the side, contemplating. "That may work."

"Oh, thank you, Professor, thank you! I promise, I won't disappoint you," he said earnestly.

"I hope, for your sake, that you won't. Come here, Mr. Malfoy."

He stood up, unable to resist looking into her eyes for a moment. She was enjoying this. The look in her honeyed eyes reminded his erection that this was all protracted foreplay and a fresh swell of blood hardened him painfully. Sweet Merlin, he had to get these trousers off, and soon. He drew even with her, knowing that his advantage in height did nothing to mute the power he'd given her.

"Come closer, Mr. Malfoy. I don't bite."

He stepped closer, wondering what approach she was going to take. He could go for a few whacks across the arse in the guise of discipline, but he doubted she was quite there yet. This was new territory for her. Depending how this went, it wouldn't be new for long.

"I've seen how you look at me, Draco."

His head jerked up. "I…I'm sorry?"

"I know you look at my arse when I bend over. And my breasts, when I check your potions. Do you like my body?"

A faint streak of possessiveness hit him – there had _better_ not be any horny seventh years looking at her breasts when she checked their potions. Her arse, either. That was his. But back to the task at hand – she had asked him if he liked her body.

"Yes, Professor," he whispered. A resounding yes.

"Is that why you didn't do your essay? You were too busy fantasizing about me?"

"No!" he protested. Then, shamefully, "…Yes."

"Do you touch yourself when you think about me?"

He could have let his cock answer that one; it twitched in response to her words. She would want to hear it out loud, though; at least he would, if their positions were reversed. And they were definitely going to be reversed in the near future.

"Yes."

She reached out and took hold of his belt. He experienced a moment of surprise that was more real than fake. The more he let himself slip into the role of the student, the hotter this became…

"I want to see you, Mr. Malfoy. I want to see how hard you get when you think about me." Her hands were undoing his belt, working on his fly…oh, God, if a pretty young Professor had been removing his pants at age 17…and thank goodness she was removing them, because he was beginning to think that the restriction of his arousal might do permanent damage.

Words could not express how much better it felt when his trousers eased off. He sighed when her hand extracted him from his boxers, stroking up and down his length.

"I don't think you'll disappoint me, Draco," she said, a smug smile on her face. "What a naughty young man you are…"

He might love this woman. Really, he might. She released his cock and turned; he didn't hold back the groan that the absence of her touch evoked. It was quieted, however, when she pivoted at the desk and opened her robe. His eyes drank in her bare skin, her peaked and darkened nipples, and the pink flush that glowed on her cheeks and was starting to creep down her chest. Slowly, she divested herself of her knickers. At last, she was gloriously, gloriously nude, the large black robe hanging off her shoulders and framing her feminine shape. She beckoned with her index finger.

"Come here, Mr. Malfoy. Your detention starts now."

Oh, this was like bad porn, but he loved it. He stepped forward, leaving his trousers behind in a pool of fabric. She hoisted herself up onto the edge of the desk, parting her creamy thighs. He could see how wet she was, and he'd barely touched her.

"Do you think you can please me?" she challenged.

He nodded.

"Then get on your knees."

Draco controlled the knee-jerk reaction of pride; a 17 year old would be down almost as soon as his sexy professor ordered it. Draco Malfoy, Head (Gryffindor) Boy, wouldn't have any reservations. He just had to elbow aside Draco Malfoy, 25, Slytherin, genetically programmed for hubris. That wasn't too hard to do when he thought about tasting her arousal and readying her for a thorough fucking. He sank to his knees, looking up at her.

Her eyes betrayed faint surprise; she'd expected a protest. Then they warmed with approval. "Make me come, Mr. Malfoy, and then we'll discuss how to make up for your failing grade in more detail."

He didn't need to be told twice. He leaned in, pressing his face to the juncture of her thighs. She smelled so good. He dipped his tongue between the folds of her labia, tracing up and down, parting them. So wet already…he wouldn't tease her. Seventeen year olds didn't know how to tease, anyway.

He found her clit, swollen and sensitive, and bathed it with the tip of his tongue. It was time to find out what she liked by trial and error. Circles…she was purring softly, stimulating her nipple with her fingers. Good, but not great. Up and down next; that was better, because she moaned and he felt a surge of wetness against his chin. Side to side was about even. Direct pressure…he pressed his tongue against the pleasure button, reveling in the way she gasped and jerked and seemed almost to want to escape him and for him to keep doing it at the same time. She'd probably like this, too…

He sealed his lips about the bundle of nerves and sucked. Her hips bucked. He loved it when he was right.

"Oh God yes, Draco!" she moaned.

He had his method. She liked just about everything, though she might be a bit too sensitive for the heavy pressure. Smiling into her pussy, he ate her out like his life (or his future career) depended on it.

Hermione's reactions were padding his ego; in the space of minutes she was quivering against his treatment. Her heels were digging into his back. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling as she drew air in and expelled it in dirty entreaties.

"Ohhh…fuck yes…Draco…that's right…!"

He wanted to put his fingers inside her. He knew what happened when that other spot within her was teased. She'd come apart. She'd scream. Well, if he wanted to atone for the failing grade, he'd best start with the most intense orgasm possible – even if his school-aged self wouldn't have known what a G-spot was if he met one in a dark alley…

Without warning, he slid two fingers into her slick passage. She spasmed and cried out at the pleasurable invasion. He didn't let up, tonguing her clit ruthlessly as he delved into her, searching for that place the drove her insane. Draco knew he'd found it when her feet dug into him hard enough to bruise.

Oh, yes. That was working. Her pussy was tightening around his fingers, a trickle of moisture sliding down his palm. She was very close. The temptation to tease, to bring her to the edge and then back down again, was awful. But he'd promised he wouldn't. Besides, in this game, turnabout was fair play and he really didn't want her to retaliate. He was so aroused that his balls were throbbing, warning him that he'd best get off soon or he'd be in for a world of misery.

Draco gave her what she needed, pressing his tongue against her clit in hard, quick swipes while he stroked over her spot. She screamed, her hands working into his hair and pulling. Bugger, that hurt, but it was worth it; her body was trembling, her insides clenching about his fingers. It would be his cock soon. The thought made him moan against her; the aforementioned organ twitched between his thighs. The vibrations wrung another intense spasm out of her, accompanied by a few more gasping keens.

A long minute later, she flopped down on top of the desk breathing as if she'd just run a marathon. He lifted his mouth from her slowly, followed by his fingers. His knees were a bit stiff as he rose; that definitely wasn't a position he was used to. Grinning, he draped himself over her and licked his fingers as she recovered.

When at last her eyes refocused, he asked, "Was that good, Professor?" He couldn't quite manage to keep the gloating out of his voice. He knew it had been damn good.

"That was," she panted, "you receive…an Outstanding…in cunnilingus."

He couldn't help it; he laughed.

"Unfortunately," she went on, "that is not an area you're tested on…in Auror training…unless your boss is a…very smart woman."

"Like you?" he said, still smiling.

"Like me." She stretched beneath him, making sure to brush some very sensitive areas. "You've made some definite progress toward raising your grade. I think you've earned back a point."

"A point?" he protested. "I think that deserves at least ten."

"Five."

"Seven"

"Five, or it's none at all."

"Okay. Five," he nodded. The grin had not left his face. "What else can I do to earn points, Professor?"

Her fingers trailed over his lips, which were pink and still moist with her juices. "You can turn me around and fuck me stupid. Another orgasm like that, Mr. Malfoy, and you'll have your ten points."

She couldn't contain a small squeal of surprise when he physically lifted her off the desk. Then he set her on her feet, spun her, and pressed her down with a gentle hand in the middle of her back. She braced her forearms on the scarred wood, curling her fingers beneath the far lip. She knew she was in for a rough ride.

Once he'd taken care of the rest of his clothes, Draco stroked his hands over her taut little bottom. He wanted to smack it just once to see his red handprint blooming there, but that could wait for another day. His eyes feasted on the sight of her: her pert backside angled up toward him, the little pucker of muscle that he might enjoy one day if she let him, the lips of her sex wet and swollen and waiting to be filled by him…oh, Merlin, he couldn't wait any longer.

He sheathed himself inside her with one measured jab of his hips. God! Every nerve ending along his penis fired at once, sending a very, very pleasurable signal to his brain that made him shudder against her. She was hot and tight and perfect. Her hand rose to grip his wrist.

"Fuck me, Draco."

He exhaled. "Yes, Professor Granger." He pulled back and thrust in again, biting his lip at the feeling of her slick friction. She seemed to want it hard and fast; he was going to have to figure out how to do that without coming too soon. She probably wouldn't appreciate him stopping and casting a stamina charm. Willpower it was, then.

First he tried to think of something else while he rocked his hips against her. It didn't work. The lovely suction of her insides overpowered it, as did the feel and sound of his balls impacting her mons. Certainly the image of his cock disappearing inside of her over and over and her low, throaty moans didn't help. Fuck. Okay, well, he'd just have to make her come quickly and hope he'd hold out.

"Hold on," he said gruffly as he took hold of her hips. She barely had enough time to grab the side of the desk before he slammed into her to the hilt. The sound of her cry was still echoing around the classroom when he did it again. Once he found a hard rhythm, gritting his teeth against the rising pleasure, he reached around her and found her clit.

Now he did tease her, easing on and off of the center of her pleasure. She was moaning and gasping, half out of ecstasy and half out of frustration. Her palm slapped down on the desk and the sound made him start slightly even though he'd seen her do it.

"Dracoooo!" she groaned. It was as much a warning as an entreaty.

"I'm not going to last if you--"

"Shut up and do it!"

Well. She was in charge, after all. He took a deep breath and had at her as hard as he could, plunging in and out in the same breath while his hand pressed emphatically against her center. Speaking of breath, that was becoming more and more difficult to catch. Pleasure was pooling in his loins, expanding, drawing his testicles near to his body.

He felt her go rigid and then another magnificent scream burst out of her. She erupted into a flurry of contractions around his questing cock. His pleasure spiked into ecstasy and he knew he was crying out, too, as she wrung his seed from him.

Oh, God. Oh, hell. He had to brace himself over her, hands against the desk, to make sure his legs didn't give out. At this volume they could wake the entire castle and probably some of the dead. Thank goodness for silencing charms. Wait, had either of them remembered to cast one? No…but they were in the dungeons, nobody would hear.

"Oh, Merlin!" Hermione exalted, boneless against the desk. "Ten points to Slytherin…Gryffindor…whatever house you're in!"

"Mm," he groaned, still inside her, "I think that's a good start."

* * *

October 7, 9 am

Lucius woke slowly and blissfully, floating out of sleep without the aid of any alarm or spell. It was nice, save for the fact that he was alone in his bed, draped across it diagonally with one leg sticking out of the covers. There were two kind of people in the world, he reflected; those who preferred to sleep alone, and those who _couldn't_ sleep without a warm bed-mate. He had never realized how much he leaned toward the second until he spent nearly three years with naught but a pillow for company.

He supposed he just liked the feel of someone being there. He didn't mind being alone, now, but before he'd found that his own company left a lot to be desired. Even if he had been remarkably closed off to his wife, he had always found comfort in the mere fact that she was there. It was the same with his son. If only he had been smart enough to show it…

Lucius blew out a breath and untangled himself from the blanket. He could run through every 'if only' in the book and it wouldn't change anything, so it was best not to bother. Things were what they were. He was lucky he was alive and free. Many men had made better decisions than him and still ended up dead.

He stood and stretched. He'd come out of football last night mostly unscathed, though he did have a bruise on his knee from an over-competitive opponent. Some of the men played like it was life and death resting on the next goal and he found that to be incredibly ridiculous. Then again, he wouldn't mind if pick-up football was the thing in life that most concerned him; it meant that everything else was as it should be. He ought to envy those men. Nevertheless, he still found it rather difficult to envy a muggle.

The Lucius of ten years ago would have wanted to kill the Lucius of today. He would have found himself repulsively muggle and common. He wondered, every now and then, how he had not simply rotted from the inside out with all the bigotry. In a way….he had. He was just fortunate enough that, like a bad case of the flu, it was reversible – and that no matter how deep he had fallen in to Voldemort's rhetoric, he had never truly surrendered his heart.

These were heavy things for the morning after the pub. He'd gone with the other men again and been a little confused at how comfortable it was. He had really forgotten what it was like to have (dare he say it?) friends, if indeed he had ever known in the first place. Again, the Lucius of antiquity would have struck him dead.

This was what happened when he was not kept busy. He thought too much. Shaking his head, he went to the loo to relieve his overburdened bladder. Once that was done he meandered toward the kitchen, scratching all the necessary things for a man to scratch in the morning on the way.

That was when he stepped on the piece of parchment the fireplace had burped out the night before. He registered the change in texture from the carpet and bent down to pick up the offending scrap. Recognizing his ex-wife's handwriting immediately, his eyes devoured her words.

_Lucius,_

_I think I am in trouble. A few nights ago, a man and his two daughters appeared at my door looking for Giacomo. The man was badly injured and said that Giacomo was a healer and could fix him; I never knew anything about him being a healer. Whether it was just an accidental omission or something he purposely kept from me, it is showing me that I don't know as much about my fiancé as I thought._

_Giacomo wasn't home when they came. The man asked me to care for his daughters while he went to a different healer and I agreed; they are young and I didn't want them to be hurt as their father was. Since then the father has not returned and the girls will not tell me anything. And you know how good I am at tricking people into talking, Lucius._

_All I know is that their names are Renata and Daniela. I had hoped to get some information out of the younger one, Daniela, but her sister is with her every moment of the day and she makes sure that she doesn't reveal anything._

_Giacomo has only been home for a few minutes and won't tell me anything, either, except that everything is fine. My gut is telling me to leave, but if I do there will be no one to care for these girls. However secretive they may be, they are still innocent. But I can't help but think of your warning; I know what machinations go on here in Milan and I hate not knowing if I am unwittingly part of that._

_I guess what I am asking is that you look into your resources and see if you can figure out who Renata and Daniela are. If I have that piece of information I will be able to decide if I should cut and run or stay the course. I hope I haven't alarmed you, and please, berate me gently._

_Cissa_

He couldn't stifle the worried smile that appeared at her last sentence. She knew quite well that he would not approve of her lack of caution. He hoped that it was harmless, but his intuition was telling him it wasn't. Lucius moved toward the dining room table, where his resources about Milan's Mafia were stacked neatly.

Renata and Daniela…he'd heard the name Renata before. He combed his brain as he combed through the papers. Where was that blasted family tree? Renata…Renata…_where_ had he heard that before?

His eyes fell on an aged newspaper article. Oh, hell. It was the one detailing the murder of Renata Scattori by Tacito Mancini. Renata was a Scattori name, then. Obviously the first Renata was dead, but there was nothing to stop any other relative from using the name again, to honor her…

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He hoped he was wrong. But when he found the family tree he was looking for, the neat writing confirmed his fears. At the bottom of the Scattori tree were Lorenzo and Gaetano; Gaetano was childless, but Lorenzo had two daughters. Renata and Daniela.

His wife had taken in Lorenzo Scattori's children. He knew nothing about the other Scattori brother, but if he was anything like Gaetano, he didn't want Narcissa to have anything to do with him. What really troubled him, however, was Giacomo. He was obviously in with the Scattoris; how had Lucius missed that? He'd investigated the man thoroughly! There had been nothing, nothing at all, to suggest that he had connections to the Mafia.

And perhaps that was the way he wanted it. Damn it. How was he supposed to do this? Common sense told him that to appear in Milan would not be very smart; he was still high on the Scattoris' list of undesirable people. It would be like apparating into the middle of a firing range. But a letter would not be immediate enough to warn Narcissa of the danger. There was a chance that she might not see it, or that the floo would be closed, and if it was, an owl would take much too long to get to Italy.

A glamour? Yes, that might be the only way. He sat down and quickly scribbled out a letter.

_Cissa,_

_The girls are Scattoris – Gaetano's nieces. The man is his brother Lorenzo. Your fiancé has connections to the Mafia after all. Get out of there, now. Don't even take anything with you. Just get out._

_I'll be under a glamour, but you'll recognize me because I'll be wearing that midnight blue robe you got me on your last trip to Paris. If you don't answer the door and can't leave with me right away, I will wait in Adriatica Alley until 19:00. If you aren't there by then, I will assume you didn't get this letter or are in danger, which are at this point one and the same. If that is the case, I will do everything I possibly can to find you. I pray that it won't come to that._

He didn't sign it. She would know who it was from, and if it fell into the wrong hands his plan would not be immediately foiled. Stuffing the letter into his pocket, he steeled himself and apparated back to the Manor for the first time in ages.

* * *

Narcissa grimaced as she took a Pepper-Up Potion. She wasn't too fond of the stuff, but after not sleeping more than an hour here and there for the last two days, she definitely needed it. Smoothing her hair down, she rose from her chair and willed herself to actually want the breakfast that she was going to.

The girls had not misbehaved in their time here. Daniela actually sort of liked her, in spite of the fact that she had been schooled by her sister not to tell Narcissa anything. The younger girl didn't know why, but knew better than to ask questions. Renata still looked at her temporary guardian like she was dirt.

Renata might be a perfectly nice girl, but she certainly wasn't showing it here. There was something about her that didn't sit well with Narcissa. The girl reminded her too closely of her relationship with her own older sister. Andromeda had always been a free thinker (and a good, hard puncher) and as such was mostly impervious to Bellatrix's will, but not Narcissa. She had been born a waif and couldn't physically stand up to her. Trying to protest against her verbally was like talking to a wall, and there was always some kind of retribution if she tried. There was no help from her mother, who liked Bella best (Narcissa was second and Andromeda a distant third), and her father was rarely present. So, at a very young age, she'd been browbeaten into being the vessel of Bella's will. She feared the same would happen to Daniela if she didn't find sanctuary from her sister.

But it wasn't really any of her business. If Giacomo said things were ok, it meant that their father would be back to take them soon. Though she wasn't entirely sure she ought to trust her fiancé's word anymore. She was about to turn into the dining room, more enticed by the smell of potatoes than she wanted to be, but the sound of the front door closing gave her pause.

Giacomo strode in. He was moving quickly and wearing a harried expression. Well, she wasn't going to hold back her questions because of that. He owed her some answers.

"Giacomo--"

But almost as soon as she had started, he spoke over her. "You have mail." He thrust a letter at her and brushed by. "When you are done, we have to talk."

Stung, she let him pass. They had to talk? That was the understatement of the century! She restrained herself from going after him and yelling. Maybe this letter was a response from Lucius. With a quick glance around, she unfolded the letter.

Her eyes widened as she read the brief, messily scrawled sentences. Lucius was normally very neat; the hastiness of the letter conveyed just how serious he was. Her heart leapt into her throat for more reasons than one.

Narcissa took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She had left her wand on her nightstand. Part of her wanted to go back and get it, but another glance at the note ruled that out. She was going to turn around and walk out the door. It occurred to her that she was only going from one man shrouded in secrets to another, but…what was it they said? Better the devil you know?

No, that wasn't fair to Lucius. Her ex-husband had changed, and drastically; he wasn't the same man she'd divorced. But that was all irrelevant while she was in danger. Narcissa straightened up and stepped toward the door.

"Narcissa, darling? Are you going out? I thought we were going to talk," Giacomo's voice sounded down the hallway. He was walking toward her.

She spent only a second near panic. Then she composed herself and turned. "The letter was from my son. He needs me. I will only be gone for a little while. Once I return, we'll talk."

Giacomo stopped in front of her. Then he reached out for her hand, and she tried not to start at his touch. For a moment nothing was amiss. Then his hand tightened around her wrist.

"We talk now, Narcissa."

* * *

Lucius cursed his luck as he walked away from the house. He had been relying on Narcissa answering the door and coming with him right away. She had said Giacomo wasn't around. But who should answer the door but Giacomo Cannavare himself? Lucius wasn't daft; he had asked to speak to Narcissa directly, but Cannavare had curtly informed him that she wasn't available and that he'd make sure she got the letter. Pushing to see her would seem suspicious and things could have changed a lot in the twelve hours that had incubated from the time her letter came through the floo to this moment. It might already be too late.

He had cast a quick privacy charm on the parchment, rendering it impossible for Cannavare to read. Even if he never gave it to Narcissa, he wouldn't suspect that anyone knew of his involvement with the Mafia. If he did give it to Narcissa she would meet him in Adriatica Alley if it was at all possible.

Regardless, if his wife (ex-wife, he had to keep reminding himself of that) didn't show by the time he'd indicated, he was going to have to switch to a more drastic plan. He didn't relish the idea of storming Cannavare's house. His skills were as sharp as they had ever been, but he had to go about this carefully. He was surer now than ever that he was missing pieces of the puzzle. It was hard to act without really seeing the big picture. Especially when he couldn't be certain of who was on what side. He'd grown up among Slytherins, but even Slytherins could learn a few things from mobsters.

Damn it, if only he'd seen her letter sooner! He might already have her safe somewhere that Cannavare and the Scattoris couldn't touch her. He bit his lip, feeling the scratch of the facial hair he'd given himself. He might have enjoyed reasoning his way out of a situation like this once; now the stakes were too high. Sighing, Lucius retreated into the hustle and bustle of Adriatica Alley, his mind full of turmoil and his gut full of lead.

* * *

"Giacomo, let go of me," she said firmly, tugging against his grip.

He ignored her and began to pull her down the hall.

"This isn't funny, Giacomo. Let go _now_!"

"I can't do that, Narcissa. Now please, come with me."

Oh, so he was going to _politely_ betray her. How nice. Well, she could still be considered a waif, but that last year of the war Lucius taught her how to physically defend herself. He didn't trust the Dark Lord and his cronies as far as he could throw them, so he'd taken steps to make sure she could hold her own if he wasn't there. Her spellwork was never in doubt. However, she had no idea how to fight someone off without it.

Once he taught her the skills, it was him she'd have to practice on; he'd come out of dark corners at her, suddenly appear and attack to test her. She knew he meant her no true harm. He was only doing it because he loved her and he wanted to make sure she was safe. It was bizarrely romantic. Invariably, whether she managed to fight him off or not, they ended up shagging. There was something about a scare and a scuffle that set the blood pumping…

She was _not_ going to end up shagging Giacomo. In fact, she was going to do something that she'd never do to Lucius – she was going to kick him in the balls, if need be. Narcissa gathered her strength, focused on where the weakest part of his hold was (the spot where his thumb and index finger met), and yanked her arm away from him as hard as she could.

It worked. She was free. Narcissa turned to run for the door. That was when Giacomo's hand clamped into her hair, halting her. A shot of pain radiated from the sharp pull on her scalp. Son of a bitch! Well, she'd taken great relish in learning this one, because Lucius had long hair, too, so it was just as easy to trap him…

She trapped his hand with her own and twisted around to face him. It hurt, and she was sure she would be parted with some of her hair, but Giacomo didn't expect it. He was wide open. She kneed him in the groin. A choked sound escaped him and he reflexively released her. Now to get the bloody hell out of this den of thieves…

She ran. If there was one thing slight people were blessed with, it was speed. She wouldn't be caught if she made it outside. She was reaching for the door handle when suddenly the heavy wooden portal was flying toward her. Narcissa managed to stop just short of it, but her beloved Louboutins got the better of her; her ankle twisted. She fell with a cry, blinding pain shooting up her leg. Oh, no…her ankle was either broken or severely sprained. She could see it swelling already.

Fuck. Tears pooled in her eyes, borne of pain and panic. She reached for the shoe, ready to pry off her impractical footwear and try to hobble out the door (forgetting altogether that someone was standing in the way), when a gentle voice sounded.

"Don't remove your shoe. It will help control the swelling."

She looked up, and it was the nail in her coffin. The man towering above her was _him_. It was Lorenzo Scattori – and this time around, he didn't have a scratch on him.


	17. Chapter 16

Author's Note: Okay, sorry for the delay. The SBF muse is a bit capricious. However, writing this chapter was very enjoyable. I'm really having fun descending into the mob stuff, and as you know I do love me some twists and turns, so this is chock full. In this chapter: Hermione does a little bit of plotting, Draco meets someone from the past while out with his classmates, Lucius gets a little more than he bargained for, and Narcissa loses her temper.

* * *

Hermione woke to a strange sound. Rather, it was a strange amalgamation of sounds. It was…a song? She lay still, absorbing the melody. She didn't recognize it, but it was peaceful and complex. Whatever it was, she liked it. Now to figure out where it was coming from…

She sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Ah, there on her night stand, the source of the music was carefully placed. It was a cell phone atop a scrap of parchment, looped over with Draco Malfoy's handwriting.

She picked up the phone. It must be his; hers was very basic and if she wasn't mistaken, it was currently sitting at the bottom of one of her handbags with a dead battery. She was notoriously bad at remembering to charge it. The only people who ever called her on it were her parents, anyhow, and rarely at that. Though she had been talking to her Mum more lately because of the divorce and the slow development of her new relationship; she was thrilled that said relationship was only with one man and that he wasn't old enough to be her father.

Hermione frowned. She still regretted not jumping at her chance to experience the man that was old enough to be her father. There was something to be said for age and experience. But it was obvious that Lucius didn't have the same feelings for her as Draco; she suspected he was always game for some flirtation, yet his heart belonged to someone else, someone he thought was out of reach. Hermione shook her head. His heart belonged to Narcissa, the lucky bitch, and the only people who didn't know it were Lucius and Narcissa.

She wondered if Narcissa's marriage would last. Draco had a few choice words for her fiancé; part of it could be chalked up to loyalty to his father, but the rest of it was just genuine dislike. Lucius was too set on not interfering, thinking that he had already done enough damage, and Hermione wished she could explain to him the circuitous and nonsensical way a woman reacted to being caught between an old love and a new one. Staying out of the way in the name of her happiness was noble and selfless, but at the same time it rankled because it seemed like he wouldn't fight for her. It was hypocritical, antiquated, and absurd, but that was how it worked.

If she was a betting woman, she would put all her money on Narcissa going back to him – if he just stormed in there, professed his feelings, and demanded it. There was something about first loves; Hermione could attest, because in spite of all that Ron had done and how little he deserved any speck of emotion from her, she still loved him. That love was irrevocably changed, but it would never go away. She had fallen in love with and married the best version of Ron and seen him change into something else. There was no hope of reclaiming what they'd had. On the other hand, Narcissa had fallen for a lesser version of Lucius. Now he'd changed for the better and realized what a fool he'd been; there was every chance of reclaiming what they'd had and more.

Lucius was a powerful, passionate man. If he directed that power and passion at Narcissa (instead of his money, politics, or pride), she would fall for him again. All mistakes aside, whatever Lucius chose to invest his energy in never failed to prosper...

Hm. Perhaps she'd have to employ some Slytherin tactics to make that happen. Six months ago she wouldn't have trusted Draco Malfoy's judgment, but she did now. If he didn't think Giacomo Cannavare was the right man for his mum he was probably correct. Lucius was playing martyr and Narcissa was playing denial. Oh, Slytherins and their games.

With a smile, Hermione picked up the phone and poked at the touch screen until the song stopped. It was the same phone Lucius had; silly her, ever thinking that Draco wasn't adept with this kind of technology. He was proving to be a better boyfriend than Ron ever had. He'd set the phone to wake her in time to get ready for the school day. She skimmed over the note.

_Good morning, beautiful. I couldn't sleep; I'm all screwed up with these time changes, so I went back to work on some things for school. Plus, I knew that if I stayed I would make you late for your classes and I don't want McGonagall to ban me from visiting you. You were fantastic last night. Just remember, once I've made up all those points it's my turn…_

_I think Saturday is a good day to start your list. I've got tickets to Samson and Delilah. Wear something nice. I'll see you at 6._

She smiled. Yes, as incredible as it seemed, she had really hit the jackpot with Draco.

* * *

Waiting was excruciating. Lucius had never been good at it, but rarely was it this bad. Most waiting was meaningless; standing in line for something, patiently awaiting someone's arrival, watching things change subtly over time…but this was not meaningless. This was his wife. Ex-wife. God, that really was an awful title.

It was times like these that Lucius fervently wished for something to smoke. He wasn't a smoker except for the occasional cigar, but those who were always seemed so entertained by their habit. He'd heard that those who quit had a terrible time with boredom, for smoking was something to do to pass time. And this was Europe, after all; everyone and their grandmother smoked. One would think wizards and witches were more enlightened, but it wasn't so, if the magic folk that bustled around Adriatica Alley were any indication.

He caved and bummed a cigarette from a pretty witch. Frankly, she seemed thrilled that he even spoke to her and tried to draw him into further conversation, but his mind couldn't construct a sentence. All told he left her rather rudely. He didn't care. He lit the cigarette with his wand. Merlin, he hadn't smoked since the age of fifteen. His mother had smelled it on him and not-so-subtly told him that smoking could reduce a man's sperm count. Whether it was true or not, that was akin to blasphemy among purebloods, whose fertility rates were already low without any extra chemical help.

Well, it didn't matter at the moment. Nobody gave a shit if he was shooting blanks, himself included. Right now he only cared about Narcissa. So he sat and smoked his cigarette. It was gone much too quickly and in spite of nicotine's reputation for settling a person down, it did little to calm his nerves.

He was in line at a small shop buying an entire pack of the damned cancer sticks when a snippet of conversation drifted to him.

"Enzo says he's crazy," one man on the far end of the shop was saying. He was short and stocky with sun-burnished skin and dark hair buzzed close to his skull to gracefully fend off his receding hairline. The man he was talking to was his polar opposite. He was tall and lean, his skin several shades lighter than his companion, with dark blond hair in a ponytail.

"He's always been crazy," the paler man said, plucking a bottled drink out of a beverage case.

"Really crazy. He tried to off him."

"You shitting me?"

"That's what I hear from Desi."

Enzo and Desi. Short for Lorenzo and Desiderio. _Lorenzo Scattori and Desiderio Mancini._ Lucius had already made the mistake of not memorizing the names of his foes once; the minute he'd figured out Narcissa's dilemma, he committed every name on those family trees to rote memory. These two were clearly members of the Milan's hybrid Scattori-Mancini crime family. Not capos or even soldato, because if they were they wouldn't discuss things so freely where anyone could hear. Low ranking enforcement men, then - picciotto. They wouldn't last long if they couldn't keep their mouths shut. However, right now that was working to his advantage.

The two men made their way up to the counter. There were two people between Lucius and them, and three in front of Lucius. The cashier was pitifully slow, a young thing snapping her gum who barely seemed able to count the galleons, knuts, and sickles she was receiving. It was a perfect eavesdropping scenario. Lucius willed them to keep talking.

"Well, Luca always said we should have killed the bastard. Only thing that held him back was Rita. Didn't want to break his cousin's heart, you know?"

The short one snorted. "Rita has a heart?" The two of them laughed. On any other day Lucius would have chuckled with them, because they were entirely right – but not today.

The short one continued once their mirth had passed. "Anyway, Enzo got patched up by that healer. The one who used to take care of Nino."

"Gianluca?"

"Nah, I think it's Giacomo."

Lucius's eyes narrowed. These two were _clueless._ This was the plague of any evil genius or remotely subversive organization – stupid help. Scattori could have people anywhere. The girl at the counter could work for him, for all they knew. There could be a recording device jammed in a licorice wand, now in strawberry flavor. They were not nearly paranoid enough.

"Oh, yeah, Giacomo, I remember him now. Hot fiancée."

"Yeah, the blonde. Pretty thing. I'd love to have _her_ lips around my--"

And suddenly, Lucius had enough. It was time to teach these half-rate lackeys a lesson. He dropped the pack of cigarettes, turned, stepped around the people that separated him from the morons, and punched the wish right out of the stupid mafioso's mouth. And, much as he'd expected, the people parted, disappearing quickly and leaving him to face two shocked, inexperienced men who had no concept of what they were in for.

* * *

Draco felt out of place. His classmates had insisted on going out, even though it was Tuesday. He had mostly gotten over his need to drink himself stupid in University, but he didn't mind having a beer or two and getting to know his classmates better.

He clicked with two of them: the Hawaiian, David, and one of the Philadelphians, Ryan. The two from New York, Gabriel and Ernesto, didn't dislike him, nor he them, but they'd kept mostly to themselves so far. Draco strongly suspected that they were a couple. The Japanese man, Isamu (or Sam – for some reason he preferred that), was reserved and Draco thought he had probably been swayed by the German, Henric. Henric barely tolerated him. In every flick of the European's eye, Draco could see that he was one of many that hadn't forgotten his involvement with Voldemort. He hadn't even given Draco a chance, but at least he settled for simple shunning; in all other aspects, he was professional. The South African woman, Chelsea, spent most of her time on a mobile phone or writing letters to her fiancé. Lastly, there was Telemachus, or Telly for short, the second Philadelphian. He was a loose cannon, the youngest of the group, and at times even Greene became irritated with his slacking. There was no denying his aptitude for potions, though. He was a good guy, but Draco saw a little too much of his younger self in his behavior to be entirely comfortable with him.

"You'll have to tell us how our Irish pubs stack up to the real thing," Ryan was saying.

"I told you, I'm English," Draco laughed. "I can only tell you about English pubs."

"It's probably like cheesesteak," Telly said. "Nothing measures up to the real, original thing."

"Probably," Ryan nodded.

"I haven't had a cheesesteak yet," David said.

"Neither has Draco," Ryan stated.

"That's crazy talk!" Telly said, doing a double take. "This calls for a trip to Geno's."

"Ugh. Pat's!" Ryan shot back.

"They're right across from each other, let Draco and David choose when we get there," Ernesto said.

"Or have them get one of each and that way they can taste both," Gabriel added diplomatically.

"Pat's," Draco said without hesitation. He had no idea what they were talking about, but Geno's sounded Italian and he'd had quite enough of all things Italian, what with this whole damned Mafia business.

"Much classier," Ryan assured him. "You can't see it from space."

"Don't listen to him, he wouldn't know good advertising if it sucker-punched him in the jaw," Telly fired back.

"You people are so argumentative!" Ernesto bitched. He was right; Ryan and Telly often butted heads, always harmlessly.

"You, sir, will boo anything," Ryan quipped in a strange voice.

"If the dog show came to town, you'd tailgate it," Telly returned, laughing. Everyone else just stared at them, utterly confused.

"Where are Henric and Isamu?" David asked, transitioning the conversation. "I bet they haven't had a cheesesteak either."

"They weren't interested," Telly shrugged. "They're a little too into potions, if you ask me."

"That's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?" Chelsea briefly surfaced from her cell phone to interject.

"You know you can't talk on that thing when we're in the bar," Ernesto said, a tad derisively. Draco was glad that he wasn't the only one that was annoyed by her constant chatter. At this rate, the girl was going to get a tumor.

"Leave her alone, she misses her boo," Gabriel chastised. "How would you feel if you were separated from yours?"

"I'm not. My boo is right here."

From there, everyone descended into a conversation about the origin and meaning of the term 'boo', in the amorous sense. Draco had never even heard the word until now; he tuned out. At least his hypothesis that the two New Yorkers were a couple had been accurate. He was starting to like Ernesto and Gabriel a bit more already; Ernesto seemed as catty as a secondary school girl, and Gabriel was tactful enough to smooth it over, with the end result being that they were terrifically sarcastic together. A Slytherin that didn't appreciate sarcasm was about as common as a selfish Hufflepuff.

They were at last arriving at the bar. Draco looked up at it; it was large and painted with a bright mural. He had noticed that there were a lot of murals throughout the city. It was a nice touch in some areas that were otherwise not very nice to look at in the least. He was quickly discovering that Philadelphia was a city of contrasts, but really, what city wasn't?

"Finnigan's Wake?" he read. He knew the morbid Irish folk song; it didn't surprise him that they'd name a bar after it. He wondered if his compatriots had any idea of the origin, or if they thought it was just a clever name.

"Next time it'll be Fergie's," Ryan said.

"No way. Kildare's!" Telly refuted.

"Moriarty's."

"McGillin's!"

"What's wrong with just the Irish Pub?" Gabriel said, irritated. "I haven't been to the one here, but it's good in Atlantic City."

It was moments like these that Draco felt like an alien from another planet. They might as well be speaking Mandarin. A glance at David assured him that he wasn't the only one that felt that way. Even though David was technically American, he was as far removed from his comfort zone as Draco was. Maybe this was why Henric and Isamu had turned down the invitation.

In front of them, the other four were still arguing and listing Irish pubs, and Chelsea was five feet away cooing to her future husband on the phone. Did a city really need that many Irish pubs? Apparently. Sighing, Draco stepped past the bouncer with the realization that he would probably be dragged to every single one before the year was out, and then some.

* * *

"That is my wife you're talking about," Lucius growled at the two stunned men. The offender was on his arse, hand clapped over his bleeding mouth.

"You must be mistaken," the tall one said, wand in hand. "You don't want a quarrel with us, friend."

Lucius willed himself to breathe. He hadn't been this angry in a long, long time. When he was sure that the next phrase to pass his lips would not be an Unforgivable, he spoke.

"No, _friends_, I think you will find that it is you who don't want a quarrel with me…"

* * *

The feeling of culture shock hadn't abated. Strange, considering this was supposed to be an Irish pub. However, there wasn't much about it that could pass for anything Draco knew. He had been warned that partying in America was not like England; the pubs didn't close early and the dance floors weren't usually separate. However, he still wasn't prepared for the mass of people (it was Tuesday!) dancing up above. Worse, everyone but him seemed to know the words to nearly every song that came on; the crowd shouted lyrics in joyful unity and some even pantomimed the story in the songs as they danced. It made him feel terrifically out of place.

He'd even lost his ally, David, in this, because apparently he liked to dance and was well up to date on current American muggle music. He couldn't blame the Hawaiian; he currently had a leggy, dark-skinned brunette practically wrapped around him. The only partner in awkwardness that was left was Chelsea, and though she was close by, she was quite absorbed with texting her far-away boyfriend. Draco thought about texting Hermione and was reaching for his phone when he realized that he'd left the damn thing with her anyway.

He blew out a sigh. The song had changed and some woman was now singing about an umbrella. The only entertainment provided to him was watching Ernesto and Gabriel dance together. It didn't bother him to see two men grinding the same way David was with the brunette. In spite of his rather biased upbringing, his family had always been surprisingly accepting of various sexual preferences – although that came with the unspoken knowledge that even if he had turned out to be gay, he would be expected to marry and father at least one child to carry on the family line. Otherwise, who he screwed (gender-wise) was up to him. Hermione often said that purebloods were an odd bunch, and in light of this seeming contradiction, he supposed she was right.

Yes, his gay classmates were being cheered on by the majority of the crowd, but there were some who made disgusted faces at them or moved away. Their expressions made him surprisingly indignant. He barely knew Gabriel and Ernesto, yet this prejudice against them sparked a certain irritation. _Close-minded gits, _he found himself thinking. And then Draco smiled to himself.

He had these moments sometimes. Moments where he observed discrimination at work and felt anger churn in his gut. Then he'd realize that for most of his life, he'd been the other person – the one doing the discriminating. For a few seconds he'd feel shame and guilt, but it always transformed into gratefulness that he had been able to see the error of his ways and move past such petty things. Reactions like the one he'd just had were good. It meant that he was a better person, one who could think for himself.

And, just like that, his anxiety dissipated. He suddenly felt ridiculously happy and like everything was as it should be. It wasn't a sensation he experienced often. With a slightly dazed smile on his face, he bought two more beers. Then he pressed one into a surprised Chelsea's hand and practically herded her onto the dance floor. Once they'd rejoined their classmates, the girl finally put away her phone, and Draco finally put away the last of his reservations about the course his life was taking. He would be absolutely kidding himself if he didn't think that a huge chunk of that serene happiness wasn't firmly rooted in the girl currently in possession of _his_ phone.

He was in love with Hermione Granger. And as far as he was concerned, anyone who didn't like it could go fuck themselves.

* * *

He hadn't gotten much from the two brainless wonders in the convenience store. They were low on the food chain and as such weren't told anything of consequence. However, he had gotten a little more information about Giacomo Cannavare.

Apparently, he was a consigliere of sorts. He had accepted the dubious role of healer to the Don nearly three decades before, because his father owed a favor. It had gone favorably for him and he had rapidly advanced among the ranks. He was renowned for having a level head and a will of steel. The two men spoke of him with awe, the kind that said they'd never met Giacomo but knew that he was one of the most trusted and held in high esteem among his peers.

Once Saturnino Scattori passed, he had remained consigliere to his sons. Most disturbingly, Giacomo had played an important role in creating the rift between the Scattori brothers. He had supported the joining of the Mancini and Scattori families and sided with Lorenzo during negotiations with another crime family in Turin. Even Lucius had to admit that Cannavare's judgment on the matter was right. Still, it gave Gaetano Scattori plenty of reason to want to get back at him, and men of his (low) caliber tended to go for what mattered most to a man – wife and family. He'd already proven it by going after his own brother.

That put Narcissa in even more danger. Though his two unwilling confidantes had made it clear that Giacomo's activities with the mafia had dwindled in recent years due to the relative peace, and that was probably why Lucius hadn't been able to find anything on him, he was still in very deep. He'd given up healing and invested some of his considerable income into various things, and was now a successful businessman. However, the two men told Lucius what he already knew; loyalty to the family was paramount and when mob responsibilities reared their head, Giacomo would respond first and foremost to them.

Lucius let them go with little more than a warning. Once they had figured out who he was, they'd assured him that they were in no way supportive of Gaetano Scattori and didn't believe that Lorenzo would harm his wife, and Lucius was well-practiced at distinguishing a harmless lackey from the more dangerous sort. Nonetheless, Lucius had had enough. Poor Narcissa had been through enough of this cloak and dagger shit with him; it might break her heart, but she was _not_ going to marry into the same old thing again, if he had any say in it. Giacomo was the most benevolent kind of mobster, but no man who loved Narcissa should be willing to put her in danger for his own ends. He'd made that mistake once.

So, in the end, he did exactly what he'd distantly considered in the first place. He stormed Giacomo Cannavare's house, thoroughly utilizing the element of surprise, and snatched Narcissa from right between Giacomo and _both_ Scattori brothers. So much for a rift. So much for Giacomo's good judgment and Lorenzo not harming Narcissa. So much for family loyalty…

But it didn't matter now. They were back in his flat, safe and sound. Nothing short of a meteor would be able to break his wards. Narcissa was in his arms. Overwhelmed with happiness at knowing she was out of harm's way, he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.

She was trembling against him. He had startled her as much as the men that threatened her, but she didn't pull away. Her lips moved softly beneath his and his hands moved to cup her finely shaped jaw. Merlin, he loved her.

Her tongue snuck out to play along his upper lip. He met her in kind and was soon kissing her with fervor, his tongue reacquainting itself with the warm, sweet space of her mouth. At last her arms wound around his torso and he felt his body ignite with want. No. Not just want. _Passion._ He was going to show Narcissa that he loved her, that he would never harm her, that she was his, and he hers…

And everything was perfect, her lips, her hands, her body, her touch…until he felt a small flare of pain in his neck. It was tiny, a quick bite that faded in a second, but a fuzzy part of his mind knew it had been deliberate. He forced himself out of the erotic haze and took a step back from her.

She stood there, near the edge of the bed, in the dark. Her lips were red and plump from being kissed. The zipper of her dress was undone and it hung too loose on her because of it, exposing a kissable collar bone and the tantalizing shadow of cleavage. In all ways she looked like a woman about to fall into bed with the man she loved, except for her eyes. They were cold.

"Narcissa?" he said softly. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth. Not a good sign. He didn't want to see this for what it really was. He'd stubbornly hold out hope that it was something else…

But it wasn't. His entire body was going numb. Lucius sunk to the floor before he fell, knowing that if his legs went out from under him, he could be seriously injured in the wake of gravity. This way, he was already on the ground and couldn't crack his head on anything on the way down. There was no use in making a bad situation worse.

Narcissa bent down next to him. "It's a muscle relaxant," she said. "I knew you'd do this, Lucius. I knew you'd try to reclaim me. You wouldn't accept my choice to stay with Giacomo."

"Why? He's…no better," he struggled to speak, aware that he was slurring. "I love you."

"Don't patronize me."

"Not," was all he could say. It was getting harder and harder to form words, or to move at all. A steady anger-tinged fear was growing inside him; this was going to leave him completely incapacitated, except for his mind, and who knew how long he would lay there, despondent, angry, and betrayed...and the one thing he had always been good at was _talking_, convincing people to see things his way, and right when he needed it, that talent was neutralized.

"You didn't care enough when it mattered. And now that you can't have me, you suddenly love me? I don't think so." There was a rustling sound and she held a scrap of paper in front of him. He could no longer move his eyes; they were stuck in focus above her head, so only by virtue of her holding the paper up could he read it. A thousand questions exploded in his head. It was a marriage license. And it had his name on it – his and hers. What the hell?

"I took the liberty of having this made up. It's an excellent forgery. Now I'm going to fix my dress and take a little trip to Gringotts."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! She would have unfettered access to his vaults if the goblins believed she had remarried him. He wouldn't berate himself for not anticipating this. Narcissa had her moments but she had never been _malicious_. She wasn't…_this_ wasn't right. What would drive her to act like this? To hurt him, to steal from him? She didn't need the money; he'd given her enough in the divorce for the rest of her life.

Blackmail. The Scattoris were holding something over her. She had to do this. There was some great consequence if she didn't. That had to be it.

"I know what you're thinking," she said suddenly. "That Giacomo must be forcing me to do this. That it's some kind of blackmail. I assure you, Lucius, this is entirely by my choice." She leaned in close, near enough to kiss him. "You make me sick," she whispered. "I never want to see you again. I don't want to have to prove it to you any further, but I will if you push me. I don't suggest you do that, Lucius, because I know things about you that could land you right back in Azkaban."

He wished he could speak, but wasn't entirely sure what he would say even if he could. Her words hurt. They hit him right in the gut, harder than any punch ever would. But more than her words, her intent wounded him. This had been a set-up. When he stormed that house, the brothers and Giacomo were preparing her to go to Adriatica Alley and meet him so she could do this exact thing when he brought her back. All he had done was accelerate their schedule a bit. He had been played like a fucking harp.

He couldn't summon the proper anger. He didn't feel stupid, either. If _he _couldn't see this coming, then it was truly a plot of the highest – and cruelest - caliber. It should have driven the tentative rehabilitation from him, crashed his walls back down, but he wouldn't let it. He had vowed never to revert to the man he'd once been, and not even this would turn him back. Though, that wasn't to say he wouldn't seek to remedy the situation…

Narcissa slid from his sight and he dimly registered her moving around the flat – he could still hear – and he clamped down on his racing thoughts. They would do him no good right now.

It might have been two minutes or a half hour, but finally he heard the door close. He was alone. Paralyzed. About to have the greater part of his fortune stolen by the woman he'd recently fallen head over heels in love with a second time. All he could do was breathe – and hope that the drug, whatever it was, wouldn't affect the muscles that accomplished that.

* * *

Draco was a little bit drunk. It felt good, though. Ryan had gone up to buy them another round without realizing that he was out of cash, and much to his dismay the ATM was broken.

"I've got it," Draco said, digging in his pocket for his wallet. He was out of cash, too, but had recently begun to understand the muggle obsession with their plastic substitutes. It was easy to whip out a credit card, and it wasn't like there was any worry about him having to pay it back. That had never been a problem for him, fortunately.

"You sure?"

He waved Ryan off and gave the order to the bartender. She lined up and uncapped several beers and shouted a total he couldn't quite make out at him. He handed her the card. He was talking to Ryan, so he didn't quite register how she'd handed it off to someone else – a short, muscular, auburn-haired man with freckles and hazel eyes. That is, he didn't notice it until the man in question did a double take at the card and then shouted at the top of his lungs,

"MALFOY?!"

Draco would have laughed at the way Ryan jumped and spilled his beer if he hadn't heard the note of consternation in the unidentified man's voice. He tensed and turned. Then, more slowly than he would have if he was sober, he said,

"Finnigan?"

It was Seamus Finnigan, all right. He was a little older, with the rugged, rascally stubble that most women loved, but no slower to anger than he had been in school.

"What the hell are you doing in my bar?"

Draco blinked. "Your bar?"

"It's called _Finnigan's_ Wake, or did that escape you?" the redhead said acerbically. "My uncle Garrett is the owner."

"Then it's not your bar."

"You've really lost your touch, Malfoy, if you're insulting me with the obvious."

"It's not a fair fight. I'm drunk."

Seamus stared at him. Ryan, meanwhile, had just connected the dots.

"You two know each other?"

"Yeah, we went to school together," Draco responded.

"And weren't we just the best of pals," Seamus retorted, his choler growing by the minute. The tone in his voice jarred Draco out of his dreamy buzz. There was nothing like the intrusion of a spotty past to bring on relative sobriety.

"Listen, Finnigan, I'm here with friends and not for trouble. I have no quarrel with you. Now just let me pay for the stupid beer."

Seamus shrugged and stalked away to run the credit card. Draco could feel Ryan looking at him. He blew out a sigh. He knew that exhilarating feeling of happiness was short-lived. It always was.

It was strange whenever he ran into people from Hogwarts. Some forgave him without a word, and others – well, he had been a right git to Seamus more than once. But the Irish were quick to love, to hate, and (very) occasionally to forgive. He could hope that the former Gryffindor's better nature would win out.

When Seamus came back, there was a baffled little smile on his face. "Malfoy, I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, because I'm sure it'll embarrass the hell out of you, but your card isn't working."

Draco frowned. "Are you sure?"

"I ran it three times. Insufficient funds." Finnigan's lips twisted slightly. "Daddy cut you off?"

Draco resisted the urge to impart some choice words upon him. He deserved Seamus's jab. He had to admit, though time had done nothing for his temper, the redhead's sarcasm had been honed to near-perfection.

"No," he responded seriously. Chelsea had now approached, wondering what the hold up with her beer was. "Chels, can I use your phone?"

"Who you calling?" she asked, picking up one of the beers and sipping.

"Hey, he hasn't paid for that yet," Seamus said.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Paddy," Chelsea replied, rather obnoxiously, and handed Seamus a twenty and Draco the phone. Draco couldn't resist a smirk.

"Yeah, you're a charmer, Malfoy, having women pay for your drinks," Seamus grumbled.

"You only wish you had my talent," he retorted as he dialed.

"Well, maybe if I was looking to hone my skills as a spoiled git, I'd be envious."

"You're acting like a git right now," Ryan said, barely stumbling over the unfamiliar insult. Both Draco and Seamus's necks rotated toward him. The good-natured Philadelphian continued, "Whatever beef you two had in school, it's over. You're adults. Act like it." It was mostly directed at Seamus. And just like that, Ryan took his beer and meandered away.

Silence ruled in the moment after his departure, or as silent as it could be inside a pub twenty minutes before closing time. Draco was spared the awkwardness of having to look at Finnigan by the phone ringing. He could see that Chelsea was still there, her eyes skewering Seamus in a way that suddenly made him discover a lot more respect for the terminally aloof girl. It felt good to have people in his corner.

The phone rang. And then it went to voicemail. Strange; his father nearly always picked up. He wasn't going to leave him a message now. It was too noisy and living without a credit card for a day or two was no great hardship.

"Weird," he murmured, folding the phone back up and handing it to Chelsea. She tucked it into her pocket.

"You boys going to finish your pissing contest?"

"I think Ryan won," Draco said. She laughed, and surprisingly, so did Seamus. With that, Chelsea took her beer and headed back toward the dance floor. Draco picked up his beverage and took a long sip. When he looked up, Seamus was rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"So what're you doing here, anyway?"

"A doctorate in potions with Finley Greene."

As many people did when they heard that, Seamus grimaced. "The people you're with…?"

"Classmates."

"Hm." Seamus's true words went unspoken, but Draco could imagine what he was thinking – he treated these classmates much better than some of the old ones. "You living in the city?" Seamus continued.

"Yeah."

"Do you like it?"

"It's…different."

For the first time, a smile broke across Seamus's face. "You'll get used to it. It grows on you. Then you can't shake it."

"Do you live here, now?"

"Just for a little while." He picked up a glass and began to dry it. "I used to come and visit every summer when I was in Hogwarts. I decided to reinstitute that policy after my engagement fell apart this spring, so here I am."

"Sorry about--"

"Don't be." Seamus leaned over conspiratorially and said, "You can't imagine how much ass I get here, for the accent alone."

Draco snorted, but smiled. "I'm flattered, Finnigan, but I'm afraid I'm already taken."

"Are you?" He tilted his head. "Cause it would work for you, too. Like that blonde over there – you could say anything to her, I bet. Go tell her that her face looks like it had a run in with surrealist painter on acid, and she'd still make out with you because you're English."

"And you call me charming," he chuckled.

Seamus shrugged, unapologetic, and Draco had to admit that the girl he'd pointed to was wearing about six pounds of poorly-done makeup. It made her look like a transvestite.

"So who's the lucky lady?" the redhead asked.

Draco hesitated and wasn't entirely sure why. Here went nothing. After another gulp of liquid courage, he said, "Hermione Granger."

"Come again?"

"Hermione Granger."

"You're shitting me!" Seamus shouted. "That rubbish in Witch Weekly was true?"

It was Draco's turn to shrug.

"No, you two _hate_ each other! I think Protestants and Catholics might like each other more."

"Times change, and so do people." That was abundantly clear to Draco, especially now; Finnigan had never struck him as the sharpest tool in the shed, but evidently he was smarter and more worldly than people gave him credit for.

"Well, bugger me," Seamus said. It seemed like a good summary. The redhead shook his head in wonder. "You should bring Hermione in sometime, I haven't seen her in ages. I work Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday."

Draco nodded. He probably would, just to surprise her. "I guess I still owe you for this beer."

"Nah, your pretty classmate got you. She single?"

He shook his head. "She's got a fiancé back in South Africa and she's a bit obsessed with him."

"That so? Too bad. I like women who can spit nails."

Draco wondered if he did, too, because Hermione certainly qualified.

"See you around, Finnigan."

"Yeah," the Irishman's eyes were on Chelsea where she danced sandwiched between Gabriel and Ernesto. "Around."

* * *

Narcissa's ankle was throbbing fiercely. It was only too convenient; now, even if she did manage to escape their makeshift holding cell (a large, empty pantry), she wouldn't be able to make it out the door without collapsing in pain. Whatever she had done to it, it was bad; it was swollen and bruised, purpled all the way down to her toes, and hot to the touch.

She lifted her head when she heard voices. They were conversing in rapid Italian. Warily she teetered to her feet, supporting her weight on her uninjured foot and leaning against the wall to balance.

The door to the pantry opened. She had to squint against the light it let in. There were two men dragging a woman in between them. She was dazed, but not unconscious; she was also an _exact_ doppelganger for the woman already in the pantry. Narcissa's eyes widened. Suddenly, she had a very, very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

And the two men were not leaving. She didn't recognize either of them, but they had the look of thugs. Hesitantly, Narcissa hopped forward and eased herself down to look at the mystery woman where they'd deposited her. She was definitely Polyjuiced; they'd probably gotten hair from her brush. This was not good. Not good at all. Her mind couldn't even begin to generate all the wicked things someone could do posing as her.

This woman evidently hadn't satisfied with her impersonation, or else why would they dump her here? The transformation was wearing off. Her skin rippled as she began to change back to her true identity. Narcissa's observation of the change was disrupted as a third man cast a shadow over the narrow doorway.

She threw a hateful glare at him. It was Gaetano, the one who had beaten and hexed Lucius within an inch of his life and probably ordered the hit on Draco. In spite of his assertion that it had been a Mancini plot, she had yet to see proof of that. Until then, the Mancinis were innocent until proven guilty.

Except, of course, the one who had just materialized in front of her - for when she returned her eyes to the woman on the floor, it was Rita Skeeter, nee Mancini. Narcissa's mouth fell open.

Rita looked around once and immediately shot to her feet, swaying dizzily.

"Gaetano! Gaetano, what are you…?"

"You've served your purpose, Rita."

"What are you saying? I'm your wife! You can't do this to me!"

Gaetano waved the other men out of the room, and without further ceremony, he slammed the door. Both women heard several locks being fastened and wards being cast.

Narcissa was pressed against the wall again, struggling to process it. Rita Skeeter had impersonated her. It went without saying that she hadn't been doing anything good. Rage sparked in her, the likes of which hadn't been felt or seen in a long, long time.

"You," she said through her teeth, "what have you done?"

Skeeter turned to her, her face streaked with shocked tears. Narcissa was pleased to note that there was an appropriate amount of fear in her gaze, as well. The woman had just realized that she was trapped in a small room with someone she had done serious and unprovoked wrong to.

Ah, but she had underestimated the woman's rancor. Rita's face turned ugly and she glowered at Narcissa.

"Your dear, heroic ex-husband came to rescue you. He got me instead, but he couldn't tell the difference with the Polyjuice…and he's quite the lover, Ms. Black."

That was it. That was all she could take. For once in her life, she would channel Bellatrix. Just once. Rita was not at all prepared for the other blonde to lunge forward, or for the substantial impact of Narcissa's hand as she was thoroughly bitch-slapped.

"If you _touched_ my husband, you heinous bitch, I will kill you!"

"_Ex_-husband, honey, you gave that up!" Rita shot back, grabbing for Narcissa's hair. Narcissa managed to evade her, well-versed in that move from interactions with her sisters.

"YOU," Narcissa shouted, "are an evil whore who thrives on other people's misery!"

"And you're an inbred twat!"

"I swear to Merlin, if any harm comes to Lucius or my son, you will regret ever being born," she vowed darkly.

"What are you going to do, choke me with your ugly designer dress?" Skeeter taunted.

"If it comes to that," Narcissa snarled. And she was one hundred percent serious. In fact, it was time to give the other woman a scare. Narcissa undid the sash that cinched the waist of her dress and wrapped the ends around her fists.

"Want to play, Rita?"

* * *

Author's Note 2: Okay, this is going to be a long one. 1) Finnigan's Wake is a real place in Philadelphia. Of course everything about Seamus's relation to it is purely my imagination at work. 2) The joke between Ryan and Telly is based on one of the Bud Light 'Real Men of Genius' commercials – the Ultimate Philadelphia Sports Fan. If you're in the mood for a laugh, youtube it. You might not get it, though, if you're unfamiliar with the city and its, er, reputation. 3) Pat's and Geno's are the center of a cheesesteak debate – as in, which one has the best steak in Philly. I'll keep mum on my preference. 4) Lucius was dosed with a muscle relaxant, specifically a neuromuscular blocker; what this does (in layman's terms) is paralyze the muscles so that the person can't move. However, they're still cognitively aware and able to feel pain and other sensations. These kinds of drugs are used often in surgery (along with anesthesia) to ensure minimal complications. They can affect the diaphragm, so people who are given these drugs usually get put on ventilation to be safe. 5) Does anyone need a lengthy explanation of mafia hierarchy? 6) All (or most) questions will be answered or at the very least clarified in the next chapter. 7) I had way too much fun writing the cat fight – and it isn't over yet.


	18. Chapter 17

He didn't know if it was anxiety or if he was genuinely losing his ability to breathe. One thing was certain; even though he was laying completely still, Lucius's heart felt like it was beating out of his chest.

He couldn't say how much time had passed. More goddamn waiting, this time unable to even move to dispel his nerves…it was torture. This was worse than the Cruciatus. His mind was running over and over just how much money he was losing at this very moment.

Lucius wasn't stupid. He knew better than to keep all his money in one place. However, of all the places he kept it, Gringotts was supposed to be the safest, so the largest sum was there. Of course. So he wouldn't be penniless, but the comfortable cushion of having more money than he could spend in a lifetime would be gone.

He wasn't as worried about losing the money as he was about what would be done with it. The Scattori brothers and their consigliere clearly had something planned and they were going to use _his_ hard-earned (or, hard-inherited) money to fund it. He didn't want to be the financier for any nutter's campaign of terror, and it was increasingly looking like Milan would soon erupt into another bloodbath.

Malfoy money was not, and would never be, blood money. The fortune had been accrued through smart investing over the generations, the majority of which were completely legal. He wouldn't go so far as to say that it was all clean money, but he hadn't been the one to dirty it and he could care less about those who had. However, he did want to keep things as they were.

He needed a way to get the money back. Maybe he was overreacting; maybe they would realize that the marriage certificate was fake and arrest Narcissa before she could pocket a single knut. He could hope, but not very convincingly. This wasn't something she would botch. When his ex-wife made up her mind, she got things done.

Okay, he was definitely having trouble breathing. It felt like he couldn't get enough air, like he was taking in a quarter of what his lungs could handle. In combination with his racing heart, he was beginning to feel lightheaded. This wasn't good.

But what could he do? He couldn't so much as twitch. This was really the worst thing that had _ever_ been done to him. And if it got any worse…God, what agony that would be, slowly suffocating to death.

Spurred by that thought, he made a quick decision. In six years without a wand, Lucius hadn't let himself get rusty. He exploited his sentence; he couldn't use a wand, but that didn't preclude him using small bits of wandless magic. In time, he'd even begun to practice wordless and wandless magic, and he wasn't half bad at it. If he could make it work now…

_Accio_ _phone._ _Come on, accio phone…_

He heard a swooshing sound and internally rejoiced; it was the phone slipping across the carpeted floor. However, he also knew that that was the easy part. The summoning charm was one of the things he'd mastered first. Other magic had proved more difficult.

He debated. He could try to call someone, but since he couldn't speak, he had no idea how the answering party would react. He liked to think that they'd recognize a silent call from him for what it was – an emergency, but he didn't want to take a chance. He could try texting. But that would be even more excruciating, requiring the right pressure on many buttons, many times, and he couldn't see what he was doing. He could end up texting a bunch of jibberish and that wouldn't do him any good.

The call first. And if that didn't work, he'd attempt the text. Even if he did send random letters, the recipient would recognize it as odd and possibly consider checking on him. So much was left to chance…

He closed his eyes. Pictured the phone, its long, bright screen, the things he'd have to do to make a call. Draco, call Draco…and then speaker phone…

A wave of dizziness hit him. He couldn't fucking breathe. Still, the phone was ringing. He'd managed it through willpower. He would stay conscious through willpower, too, as long as he could manage.

* * *

Hermione nearly jumped ten feet in the air when a strong vibration tickled her rear end. Ginny gave her a strange look as she danced around for a moment before extracting Draco's phone from her back pocket. She'd completely forgotten about stashing it there when Ginny had owled to ask if she wanted to come over and help her start designing the nursery.

Hermione looked at the screen. It said 'Dad'. Lucius was calling, then. She briefly considered not answering it, since Lucius wasn't looking for her, but she hadn't spoken to him in a while and it might be nice to talk for a few minutes. Poking a hesitant finger to the screen to answer, she lifted the phone to her ear.

"Hello," she said amicably.

Silence.

"Hello? Lucius, it's Hermione. Draco lent me his phone."

Again, silence. Hermione frowned.

"Lucius?"

Ten excruciating seconds of quiet followed. Wait, not entirely quiet…if she listened hard, she could make out the sound of breathing. It was shallow and labored.

"Lucius. Lucius, are you all right? Please answer me."

Ginny glanced up, copper brows knitting slightly. Hermione's stomach was rapidly tying itself in knots as she listened to the low rasp of breathing. A moment later her fear quickly solidified into resolve.

"I'm coming, Lucius," she said, and hung up the phone.

* * *

Ringing. On the third, someone answered. Not who he expected, but still good; Hermione's pretty voice drifted to his ears. No, he was not bloody well all right! Thankfully, she got the message quickly, and her parting words reignited his hope.

"I'm coming, Lucius."

Bless that girl and the brain between her frizzy curls.

* * *

Hermione wasn't taking chances. Both Harry and Ginny were with her and all three had their wands drawn. She had no idea what they were getting into, or if Lucius was even in his flat. She hoped he was. Oh, how she hoped he was…but Harry had offered some hope, saying that muggle mobile phones had something in them called a GPS, which could be used to track a person's location. If he wasn't in the flat, they would have to use the GPS.

The door wasn't warded. That was very disturbing. It meant someone had already dismantled the magical protection. His face set in a scowl, Harry took two steps backward and then shouldered the door open with a loud, splintering crack.

Hermione and Ginny waited in strained silence. A few moments later, Harry reappeared and nodded tersely. They followed him in, wands still raised. The flat was quiet.

The kitchen was undisturbed, as was the living room. However, Lucius's study wasn't quite right. Ginny pointed mutely to a crooked drawer, then to a box on the floor. Harry picked it up and frowned before handing it to Hermione. It was an empty box of wizard checks.

Shaking her head, Hermione moved forward and carefully pushed open the door of his bedroom. It was dark, but the pale fan of his hair was impossible to miss on the floor. She gasped and ran the few steps to him, tears already starting in her eyes.

He was dead. Sweet Merlin, he was dead, still, frozen, his eyes open and staring motionlessly up at the ceiling. Ginny was next to her, her mouth open in shock. Harry stood over them, on edge, a dark look on his face.

"Oh my God. Oh…he's…"

"His neck," Ginny whispered, "look at his neck."

She did, taking in the small pinprick and the ring of purple bruising around it. "Someone poisoned him. But who could get this close? How…" she trailed off, overwhelmed and stunned.

"Ow!" Harry suddenly exclaimed. Both women started and turned to him, just in time to see something fall to the floor. He was rubbing the back of his head, perplexed. "It just smacked into me. Do you suppose someone else is here? We need to--"

"Harry, look!" Hermione interrupted, pointing frantically. Behind him, on the wall, words were being spelled out in some unidentified substance.

N-O-T-D-E-A-D

Not dead! Hermione's eyes widened.

"Ginny, take his pulse! See if he's breathing!"

The letters continued.

P-A-R-A-L-Y-Z-E-D-C-A-N-T-B-R-E-A-T-H-E

"He has a pulse! He's barely breathing, though!" Ginny reported, her face lighting up.

D-Y-I-N-G

"Okay. Okay, we're here, we're taking you to St. Mungo's _right now_." Hermione began to wrap her arms around his unyielding body when Harry spoke up.

"Wait, he's spelling out something else!"

G-R-I-N-G-O-T-T-S

"What about Gringotts? Lucius, what about Gringotts?" Hermione beseeched.

N-A-R-C-I

And then the letters stopped.

"Narci? Narcissa?" Harry said, confused.

"No time!" Ginny practically shouted. "He's not breathing!"

With a frustrated sigh, Harry wrapped his arms around both women, who were securely anchored to Lucius, and apparated. And, as they landed in the main entrance of St. Mungo's, he realized that this was the second time in twice as many months that he'd shown up with a Malfoy on the verge of death in tow.

* * *

"You're insane!" Rita Skeeter panted, cowering in the corner of the pantry. Narcissa advanced on her without hesitation. They had chased each other around the small space for several minutes, and she had at last managed to back the woman into the corner. She was so angry that she didn't even feel her ankle; rage gave her adrenaline and dulled the pain.

"_I'm_ insane?" she shouted. "I don't make up lies! I don't profit from other people's mistakes, or awkward moments, or misfortunes! I don't pay prostitutes to drug men so that they'll cheat on their wives!" She _still_ couldn't believe that; regardless of how stupid the Weasley boy was and how glad she was that he'd mucked it up with Hermione (giving Draco the in he needed), that was low even for Skeeter.

"No!" she shot back. "_You_ sit back while your psychotic hubby murders people!"

"People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones," Narcissa snarled. "And for your information, Lucius never killed anyone. That's more than can be said for _your_ fine example of a spouse!"

"That's what he's told you, is it?" Skeeter sniffed derisively. "What do you think went on in the service of the Dark Lord? Tea parties?"

"What do _you_ think goes on in your little Mafia game?"

Rita's eyes narrowed. "The family is about mutual prosperity. We're not trying to rid the world of anyone we consider beneath us. People get themselves into trouble when they cross us; they aren't born with a strike already against them. We're not supporting a madman. It isn't eugenics, you thick wench!"

"Maybe it was about that once, but look around, Rita, you _are_ supporting a madman! And I'll have you know, he's trying to implicate _your_ family in the things _he_ is doing!" Narcissa stomped her foot, irritated at the woman's inability to see things for what they were. "He just locked you in here! He's probably hoping I'll kill you to save him the bother! He threw you aside like you were nothing." She jabbed a long-nailed finger at Rita's face. "At least _my_ husband came after me."

And that was probably the cruelest thing she could ever say to the blonde across from her. She felt no remorse whatsoever; she deserved it. She had shattered many marriages and friendships. Narcissa didn't feel bad returning the favor, though it was obvious that Rita and Gaetano's marriage had been on the rocks for some time – even if Rita was oblivious to that fact.

In spite of herself, she felt a small frisson of sympathy when the curly-haired woman burst into tears. She certainly wasn't going to comfort her. She could feel some small pity, though, for a woman who had been so thoroughly betrayed by her husband. After all, she had recently experienced the exact same thing with her fiancé.

Narcissa was ready to back off. She was ready to sit on the opposite end of the pantry and watch while Rita had herself a good cry. But that wasn't meant to be, because Rita's face filled with a venomous expression and she spoke,

"_Your_ pretty husband is dead, Narcissa."

Her brain balked at the words. "What?"

Rita's furor gained speed. "I poisoned him. Right about now, he should be slowly suffocating to death as his diaphragm stops working."

"You're lying," Narcissa whispered, eyes wide. That was what this woman did. She lied. It wasn't true. She was bluffing. She _had_ to be bluffing.

"No, I can even tell you the name of the poison. It's called pancuronium. They use it for euthanasia, you know, and lethal injections…" At that moment, Rita Skeeter was malice personified. She went on, softly and viciously, "Poor Lucius, dying all alone, thinking the woman he loves is the one who betrayed and murdered him…"

"It's not true!" Narcissa shouted, tears pooling in her eyes.

"He's dead and he deserves it. Though I personally believe the Dementor's Kiss would have been a much more satisfying way for him to go…"

Narcissa was numb. Literally, her entire body had lost feeling; it all went to her chest, where it congealed and swelled until it could no longer be contained. It felt like a bone snapping, like a ligament tearing. Now she knew it wasn't just a euphemism when they said someone died of a broken heart, because hers was in pieces.

* * *

Giacomo Cannavare sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Fucking Gaetano. It was only the Scattori family's meager numbers and Gaetano's position in maintaining the bond with the Mancinis that had kept him from recommending to Lorenzo that his brother be discretely dealt with. Hell, right now he wouldn't mind doing it himself.

He had warned Lorenzo. He had told him that he was hoping against hope that his brother's fit of ruinous ambition in the eighties was a one-time event. All they had to do was look at the history of any mob family; they were replete with backstabbings and jealous murders. He had just watched as Gaetano used his own wife (malignant as she was) to steal another man's fortune, and then cast her by the wayside. Lorenzo was next, no matter how nicely Gaetano was playing so far.

He knew his type. They always had an agenda. They would use the people around them until they no longer provided any benefit and then they would move on. People like Gaetano left a storm of destruction in their wake.

It was already happening. Gaetano had effectively destroyed Giacomo's chance at marrying Narcissa. She would never come back to him now, not when she thought he'd betrayed her. Not when he'd kept secrets from her. It wouldn't have been an issue if things had continued as they were before Gaetano's reappearance; Lorenzo rarely needed his advice and Desiderio was similarly level-headed. The two were an excellent team.

Giacomo had been waiting his whole damn life to marry a woman he loved. He'd been recruited into the mob at the age of 20 and for the first two years, he had never been entirely sure of his footing in the organization. Any little mistake with Saturnino could have been the end of him. Luckily, the Scattori patriarch had loved him like a third son, and made it well known to everyone. However, there had been no pretty cousin to match him to and women feared becoming involved with a made man; he had spent the greater part of his adult life alone, or in company that offered pleasure but little else. In Narcissa he had at last found a woman who was smart, witty, attractive, and passionate. That was about all a man could ask for in a partner.

That was why he had pursued her so diligently and even stooped to snatching her from an ambivalent husband. He did feel a bit guilty over it, but not guilty enough to form any regret or surrender her. If Lucius Malfoy was too stupid to recognize the gem he had, then it was not his fault.

Now it was shot to hell. Gaetano had forced his hand. He had to pretend to go along with him, for Lorenzo's sake. His wife Jocasta's life hung in the balance. He'd been able to negotiate an exchange, Narcissa for Jocasta, under the guise of a détente between the brothers. He had correctly guessed that Narcissa would be a more valuable prisoner. He prayed that Gaetano was only interested in her money.

He had already talked it over with Lorenzo and Desiderio. If Gaetano's goal was to rid Milan of the Mancinis, then they had no worry over losing the loyalty of the family they already had. However, the Mancinis outnumbered Gaetano and his few supporters by a great many, so he must have some kind of trump card. He had something up his sleeve, and they couldn't act until they knew what it was.

He hated to do this. He knew Narcissa was strong; she had proven to be fierce when threatened or provoked. His sore nether regions proved that. She was also very intelligent, though he often pretended not to notice so that she would think that he wasn't on par with it. She had no idea how smart he was, and he had every idea how smart _she_ was. She would survive. She would get through whatever ill treatment befell her until Giacomo could free her. It wouldn't take long, if all went to plan. But he wasn't sure that she would be able to forgive him when all was said and done…because already, he wasn't sure if he could forgive himself.

* * *

Draco suffered a jaw-cracking yawn. He had known the doctorate would be chock full of research, but he would rather be brewing today. Needing to not kill himself with volatile ingredients would do a better job of keeping him awake.

Only Henric and Isamu were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Everyone who had gone out looked a bit like a zombie. It was completely worth it, of course, and he didn't regret it in spite of the odd run-in with Seamus Finnigan.

Telly was asleep on the book he'd been reading. Gabriel and Ernesto were managing to get something done, albeit slowly and painstakingly. Chelsea looked slightly glazed; her eyes were on her book, but they weren't moving. Ryan was taking notes and David was doing the "I'm trying not to fall asleep" head jerk across from him. For his part, Draco had managed to find a few books that might be useful, and though he wrote down the titles and page numbers, he couldn't be bothered to actually read the articles right now.

He looked at Henric and Isamu. They were sitting together, looking very studious indeed. Eight hours of sleep could do that, Draco thought wryly. However, in getting their eight hours of sleep, they had missed out on the bonding that had taken place the night before. There was no more awkward unfamiliarity among those who had gone out. It had dissolved just like that, with a little beer, a little dancing, and a little late-night conversation when they got back.

Now the two men were at a disadvantage. Once a group formed, it was hard to break in. It was now or never for them. Making up his mind, Draco closed his book and walked over to their table.

Both of them looked up at him expectantly. Henric, in particular, wore an expression that told him he'd best state his case quickly and be gone. Draco ignored the irritation it raised in him and tried to be nice. He sat down at the end of the table.

"So, what topics are you guys thinking about for your dissertations?"

To his surprise, Isamu spoke first, and with some enthusiasm.

"Oh, I'm quite interested in the research that's going on for organ-growing potions. Do you know, if they can perfect the formula, they can grow new nervous systems for people?"

"Wow," Draco said, suitably impressed. He hadn't heard that. "Is there much data?"

"A fair amount. I hope to make my own contributions," Isamu nodded.

Draco looked toward Henric. The German stared back.

At that moment, Finley Greene entered the room. Ryan threw a wad of paper at Telly, who woke with a snort. The tall Alchemist (for that was what they called someone who had a doctorate in potions) smiled slightly and said,

"As you were." He moved over toward the table where Draco sat in an interesting stalemate with Henric and relative ease with Isamu. "Draco, a letter came for you a few minutes ago. The owl was very insistent." Greene held up a bandaged finger. "It bit me when I didn't get up to bring it to you right away, so I figured it must be important."

Draco grimaced. "I'm sure it's nothing. Sorry about the bird."

Greene shrugged, supremely unconcerned. "Let me know if you need anything." He surveyed the room briefly and said, "Good work, everyone." Then he glided into the stacks, making himself scarce in the massive library.

With a sigh, Draco opened the letter. And as he read it, he knew the color was draining from his face. It was happening again.

"What is it?" Isamu asked.

"Is everything all right?" Chelsea echoed.

Draco re-folded the note and reached for some composure. "No. My father is in the hospital. He almost died."

"You have to go see him, man," Telly said. "We'll tell Greene where you went."

Draco nodded. "You're right. Okay. I…I guess I'll floo." His thoughts were scattering in a dozen different directions; he might splinch himself if he tried to apparate.

Henric broke his silence at last. "Do give Daddy Death Eater our regards," he said frostily.

The slam of Draco's notebook against the table made everyone in the room jump, and it echoed off the high ceilings of the library. He leaned into Henric's personal space, his face not three inches from the other man's.

"I am sick and tired of your silent accusation, Henric," he enunciated. "Do you think I wanted it? I was sixteen. I had no choice." Rage was steadily building inside Draco. He was done with blame, just done. "Did you ever see him? Did you ever stand before Voldemort? No. He's just some kind of legend to you," he spat. "You have never heard his voice. You have never felt his cold hand on your shoulder, or his magic burning into your very soul while he used Cruciatus on you, or worse. You never had the lives of your family held over you. You never watched your friends die. You never had to live every day of your life in constant fear that _you_ were going to die. You have no idea of what the circumstances were or what it was like, so until you do, which will be never, I suggest you keep your mouth shut."

"And as for my father, well, he's made his share of mistakes. I can't deny that. But have you never made a mistake? Are you perfect? Have you never fallen for something that turned out to be a lie? You don't know my dad. He isn't what people think he is. I love him and I'm proud of him, end of story. So don't you breathe a word against him, Henric, not in my presence, because I _will_ defend him and I can guarantee that that's a fight you can't win," he finished with a snarl.

"What's going on here?" Greene's voice rang out in the silence after Draco's tirade.

"Henric is being an asshole," Telly supplied bluntly.

"What's the problem, Mr. Faust?"

"I didn't know when I was accepted to this program that I would have to work alongside people like _him_," the man in question replied, thrusting a finger at Draco. "He should be in prison."

"I was tried like everyone else, you son of a bitch," Draco shot back. "If I _should_ have been in prison, they would have sent me there."

"They clearly made a mistake," Henric said between his teeth.

"Think what you want." Draco turned and began to stalk away. Then, as another thought struck him, he turned back. "You're so eager to condemn. What did I ever do to you? I guess I offend you with my very existence, with my audacity to try to do the same things as you. Sounds an awful lot like Death Eater philosophy, doesn't it?"

Henric's chair clattered to the ground as he stood up abruptly. "Don't you dare--"

But he was interrupted by Greene, who barked, "Enough! Draco, go where you're going. Henric, outside with me. NOW."

Draco had already turned his back on the situation. He knew he was walking the wrong way to escape the library, but for now just removing himself from the immediate conflict was what he needed. He wound his way deep into the stacks until he had no idea where he was. Then he leaned against the musty books and breathed.

Would it never stop? He supposed not; people had long memories. But six and a half years had gone by. He had done so much to distance himself from all that he used to be. And if people in Britain could forgive him, the people that were closest to the war, who lost the most, what was wrong with the rest of the world? He supposed it was ignorance. Not having a face to put to an accusation. He was just a flat character to people like Henric, a remorseless villain who had escaped the fate he deserved through money or wiles or both.

Hell, he knew better than most how easily people could judge without knowing all the facts. He shouldn't let it get to him so much. It was his karmic return, he supposed, for voicing his less-than-educated (and often unkind) opinion so much in his youth. He wouldn't be the type who could dish it out but not take it. Draco took a deep breath, willing it all to slip away. There were more important things to deal with right now.

He stood up straight and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of his shirt. Then he turned, and nearly had a heart attack, because David was standing right there.

"Sorry," he said immediately. "Didn't mean to spook you."

"It's all right. I wasn't paying attention."

"I wanted to see if you, like…need moral support, or something."

Draco had to smile. Men were so dismal at this kind of thing, himself included. Still, it meant a lot that David cared enough to track him down and offer his awkward backing.

"No, I'll be fine," he breathed, willing it to be true. He would. It could be worse. He could be in prison, his father could be dead. There was always something worse.

"You sure?"

Draco turned. Gabriel and Ernesto were standing there. He nodded at them.

"Forget Henric and whatever crawled up his ass and died," Ryan muttered, shuffling up behind David. "Go see your dad."

"We can make it a class trip." That was from Telly, who appeared at the other end of the aisle. "I always wanted to go to England."

"All you'll see is the inside of a hospital," Draco murmured. Telly shrugged. Chelsea was next to him, quiet and a little pale. His eyes stayed on her; if anyone had understood the content of the exchange between him and Henric, it was Chelsea. He didn't think the others had any idea of what they had spoken of.

She offered a small smile. Somehow, that made him feel better. She knew what he was, what he'd been, what it all meant – and she was still there, silently supporting him. This wasn't going to change things. This wasn't going to ruin the friendships he'd forged, like it sometimes had in the past. Fighting a lump in his throat, Draco said,

"No, I'm fine to go alone. I appreciate it, though."

"Rain check, then," Telly said. "And tell your pops that there's no dying allowed. Dying is for pussies."

"And you say _I'm _bad," Ernesto snorted. Chelsea punched Telly in the arm.

"I'll be sure to pass that on to him," Draco chuckled. "Thanks, guys."

* * *

In retrospect, Ginny thought, she ought to have been a little more specific with her letter. Her parents were due over an hour after Hermione's arrival, so that her mother could help with the nursery designs. When it became obvious that she wasn't going to be home by then, she had sent a letter. It said 'Had to go to the hospital, will reschedule tomorrow.'

They had of course jumped to the worst conclusion and thought that something was wrong with the baby. So, her entire family was now crowding the waiting room. And she wasn't kidding when she said it was everyone. They were there in all their glory; her mother, her father, Charlie, Bill, Percy, Fred, George, and Ron. And most of them weren't happy.

Why would they be? They had all dropped whatever they were doing to rush here, thinking that she was in danger and would need their support, and who did they find? Lucius Malfoy. And it was safe to say that he was not their favorite person. However, something strange was happening. Hermione's obvious worry was kicking her mum's mother hen instincts into high gear.

"Honestly, he's getting into more scrapes than a Gryffindor lately," Molly was whispering to Hermione. "And I ought to know, I raised seven of them! This is what happens when men don't have a good woman around to keep them out of trouble!"

"I just can't believe this happened even when he's got his wand," Hermione whispered back, clearly beside herself.

"What _is_ that ex-wife of his doing? He's obviously lost without her, like Arthur would be without me…"

Ginny rolled her eyes and tuned the two of them out. Their clucking would soon be overruled by utter scandal. Because, when Draco arrived and Hermione flung herself into his arms, the reality of their relationship would finally be outed to Ron – and every other Weasley, to whom she was as much a family member as Ginny was.

* * *

Draco walked through the doors of St. Mungo's and bypassed the information counter. He knew where he was going. He had, after all, spent nearly a month on the poisoning ward not so long ago. His feet guided him easily as he mentally prepared himself to see his father near death yet again.

So, he was not at all prepared for the sea of redheads that greeted him. He stopped short in the doorway of the waiting room, blinking in confusion. He was nearly ready to turn around and retrace his steps, to make sure he was in the right place, but at that moment Hermione burst out of the crowd.

"Draco! Oh, thank goodness you're here!" She launched herself into his arms, planting a kiss on his lips and then leaning her face against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her, but was keenly aware of all the freckled faces that had just turned to him. He swallowed.

"Yeah," he said lamely, "wouldn't miss it for the world."

Not even two seconds passed before ten voices simultaneously erupted in shouting – the loudest of which belonged to one Ronald Bilius Weasley.

* * *

Arthur had discretely slipped into the hospital room, needing a moment to escape the absolute pandemonium beyond the door. Personally, he didn't really care who Hermione dated, as long as he made her happy and treated her well. His own son had botched that up, and in light of that, what right did he have to deny Draco Malfoy a chance? The boy had obviously changed.

Arthur took a long glance at Lucius. He was still in the hospital bed, his face pale, with some type of breathing apparatus in his mouth. He wondered if Lucius had changed as much as his son. People said he had, but Arthur was highly suspicious.

Lost in his contemplation, he didn't notice that the other man's eyelids had lifted. When he finally realized that Lucius was awake, his cool blue eyes looking right at him, Arthur was mildly flummoxed.

"Oh…er…I'll call for the nurse," he said, taking a step toward the door. A movement of Lucius's arm stopped him. He couldn't speak through the breathing apparatus, apparently. Cautiously, Arthur approached.

Lucius looked up at him with clear eyes and made a motion with his hand. It looked like he was drawing squiggles in the air. Ah, he wanted to write in lieu of speaking. Just to be sure, Arthur said,

"You want something to write on?"

Lucius nodded. Arthur turned and looked around for something, smirking as an errant thought entered his mind. He liked Lucius a lot better this way – mute. His mouth had always been his sharpest weapon, after all. He found some sturdy paper towels that would serve as paper and he had a muggle pen in his pocket; he liked them better than quills, as they had their own self-contained ink.

Wondering where this would go, he handed both off to the other man. To his surprise Lucius had no trouble with the pen, clicking it open and beginning to write with a hand that was only slightly clumsy. He had left it retracted just for the moment of amusement it might proffer in watching Lucius struggle with it. So it was true what they said, that he'd been mugglized.

Lucius finished and held up the paper towel.

_What the hell is going on? It sounds like a riot out there._

Arthur bit back a smile. The other man wasn't far off the mark.

"Ah, well, the majority of my family has just discovered that Hermione is dating your son."

The only evidence of a reaction was the slight raise of Lucius's eyebrows. He set the paper towel back down and began writing again.

_In that case, I am still unconscious._

This time Arthur did smile. "Lucky bastard." Lucius had already set down the pen and closed his eyes, doing a very convincing impersonation of unconsciousness. Arthur picked up his pen and tucked it into his pocket. "I'll let the nurses and healers know you're awake once Armageddon dies down."

No sooner had he turned than a shrill voice rang out.

"_Arthur!!!"_

He walked out of the room just in time to see Ron and Harry staring one another down, looking as though they might come to blows.

* * *

A curious calm had descended over Lucius. He wondered if he was drugged. But from the moment he had regained consciousness, all the panic was gone. He knew it was too late to prevent the money from being taken. He had one option and one option only: figuring out how to get it – and his wife – back. Because that woman, whoever she was…was not Narcissa. He was certain that conversing with the goblins from Gringotts would prove it. And after he did that, he was going to have a little chat with Kingsley Shacklebolt. Pieces were already sliding into place in his mind. No one struck Lucius Malfoy so many times without him striking back. And it was no bother at all that he had to go through slightly more lawful channels than usual. In fact, he sort of relished the challenge of it. Vengeance would be that much sweeter if it was mostly legal - emphasis on mostly.

* * *

Harry was nose to nose with Ron. He certainly had his issues with Draco, but Hermione could make up her own mind. She always had. And really, her judgment was usually better than anyone else Harry knew.

"Calm down, Ron," he said, trying to cool his friend down.

"Are you kidding? It's _him_, Harry, the ferret, and he's just using her!" Ron bellowed.

"Last I checked, Weasley, you broke her heart and divorced her, so I don't think you have any grounds to be territorial," Draco shot back, already primed for verbal combat by the spat with Henric.

"Malfoy, shut up. Let me talk to him," Harry warned.

"No. His issue is with me. You shouldn't have to stand in the middle."

Harry gave him a look like he had suddenly sprouted a few extra limbs.

"Oh, yeah, and aren't you just the greatest, swooping in when she's vulnerable and taking advantage of her!" Ron accused, having not even heard the exchange between Harry and Draco.

"Ron!" Hermione shouted. Her voice gave everyone pause. Harry took one look at her and braced himself. Stormclouds were gathering in her eyes. He knew that look. It was the look she'd had when she had first found out that Ron had cheated and thought that he had kept it from her.

"For Merlin's sake!" she said, just as loudly, stalking closer and elbowing Harry out of the way. Now she was nose to nose with Ron, whose face was going from bright red to an unhealthy shade of pale. Ron knew that he was in for it.

"You _never_ respected me, Ronald Weasley! I am not weak, or stupid, or too dumb to understand my own emotions!"

"I never said that!" Ron protested.

"Not out loud! But what is this you're doing now? Questioning my choice, acting like I'm some poor defenseless twit being strung along by the _evil_ Malfoy. I don't need your protection, Ronald, and frankly I don't want your concern. You can take your opinion and shove it, because I'm happy and that should be all that matters to you!"

"You _think_ you're happy," Ron muttered darkly. "But what happens when he screws you over for some pureblood bitch? You can't honestly think he's going to choose you. You're just a muggleborn."

Everyone in the room groaned. They knew that that was the absolute wrong thing to say. Ron had, once again, not just put his foot in his mouth, but possibly his entire leg.

"OH! Is that so? I'm just a muggleborn! Not good enough for ANY of you, hmm?" she shouted. "Is that how YOU feel, Harry?"

"No!" he said emphatically.

"And you?" she whirled on the other Weasley brothers, spearing them with her gaze one by one. Thankfully, George seemed to have been gifted with all the common sense Ron lacked.

"No, Hermione. I'd say you're TOO good for every last one of us."

"Good God," Draco murmured in the silence that followed, with a hand against his forehead. "I just want to see my father."

That was the opportunity that Arthur and Molly needed. Molly bustled forward.

"This is neither the time nor the place! Draco's father has been hurt and the last thing he needs is to deal with this shenanigans! Imagine if it was your father! Honestly!" she huffed.

"We actually _like_ our father," Ron sniped, not entirely finished with his temper.

"That's enough, Ronald," Arthur barked. "I don't want to hear another word. Hermione is right. You gave up your right to be involved with her decisions when you decided to divorce her. It's best if you accept that."

"You can't seriously be all right with this!" Ron protested.

"Hermione is a grown woman, one of the smartest I know. I trust her judgment. I am happy if Hermione is happy, and from what I can tell, the only thing making her unhappy right now is _you_."

And that finally, finally shut Ron up.


	19. Chapter 18

Lucius was not thrilled to have an audience. Having a tube removed from one's trachea was generally not the most graceful thing in the world. The whole set up was ridiculous; Hermione had already said that it wasn't much different from a muggle machine. It was more or less and enchanted bellows connected to a tube that was currently in his throat. He was grateful for it because he'd be dead without its intervention, but it was supremely uncomfortable now that he was conscious and breathing on his own. And now he had to have the damn thing removed with approximately fifteen people as spectators.

"All right," the healer said, "I'm going to pull it out now. It will feel strange, though it shouldn't hurt. You might experience a gag reflex so here's a pan just in case. Coughing and a scratchy throat are normal. Ready, Mr. Malfoy?"

Somewhat miserably, Lucius nodded his assent. The healer grasped the tube and in one smooth, practiced yank it slid out. He was coughing before it left his mouth.

It went on for nearly five minutes. His eyes were tearing and his throat felt like it was on fire. Draco and the healer were discussing some kind of potion while he attempted to forcefully eject a lung. That was when Molly Weasley stepped forward decisively and waved her wand at him.

"Levamentum gutter."

All of a sudden, the pain and scratchiness, along with the urge to hack up his alveoli, were gone. Lucius blinked, stunned. The healer turned to Molly with wide eyes.

"Is that a spell of your own creation?"

She nodded, unfazed. "It's similar to other pain relief and antitussive charms. I just made it more specific to the throat."

"It's genius. However did you think of it?"

Molly looked at the man incredulously. "Possibly because I raised seven children? _Those_ seven children?" She pointed at the cluster of redheads. "Along with my husband and half of my childrens' friends."

The healer was oblivious to her sarcasm. In fact, he looked ready to explode with excitement. "Mrs…Weasley, was it? Would you be interested in patenting that spell?"

"Patenting?" she asked.

"Yes. It entails--"

"Do it," Lucius interrupted. His voice was still a bit rough from thirst and abuse of the involved structures. He plowed on anyway. "There's a lot of money to be made in patenting spells and charms. The patent means that you get the credit for inventing the spell, and every time it's used, a very small royalty goes to you. It's only a knut, but a spell like that – one that works very well, as evidenced by my ability to speak at present – would be put into wide use with the right advertising. Wizards and witches across the world would be using your spell, not to mention healers and hospitals, and that adds up. It could be very lucrative."

"He's right," Fred – or George? – said after a beat of silence. "We've patented some of our W3 products, like the Skiving Snackboxes, and it makes for a lot of additional income."

The other twin spoke less than a second after his brother had finished. "Mum, you've got dozens of self-invented spells like that one. Why not make good use of them? Get the credit you deserve?"

"Oh, I don't know," Molly hedged nervously.

"It sounds like a great idea," Bill chimed in. "Merlin knows we wouldn't all be here if not for some of your spells."

"Don't remind me," she said, her hand against her chest. "I need time to think about this."

"It doesn't have to be right this moment," Arthur said. "We can talk it over later."

"If you decide to go ahead with it, you will need someone to do your numbers and ensure that you get the best possible contract," Lucius stated, operating on feelings of guilt and impulsivity, both of which he was becoming more used to lately. "I would be happy to provide that service."

"Oh…er…well, that is very kind of you, Mr. Malfoy, but we don't really have the money for that."

"I was not intending to charge you," he said, as if he gave out freebies every day. In reality, he had rarely ever done such a thing, but if he was going to make some ridiculous attempt to patch things up with a family he'd ridiculed groundlessly for years…Molly looked flabbergasted, but Arthur had a small smile on his face.

The mention of money brought him back to the more sobering reality he was in. "Speaking of money, I need to talk to my goblin representative from Gringotts as soon as humanly possible." He looked at the healer. "Would it be possible for you to place the call for me?"

The healer nodded. "Right away, Mr. Malfoy." He exited the room in due haste.

"That's right," Harry spoke up. "Gringotts. What were you trying to tell us?"

Lucius took a breath and glanced at Draco. This was going to be difficult. Even though Lucius was beyond sure that it was not Narcissa who had done this to him, he didn't have concrete proof. In the absence of that, the authorities would be looking for his ex-wife. Still, he had to tell things the way they were – with the minor omission of how he'd charged in like a reckless Gryffindor and absconded with the very woman who'd done this to him.

"My ex-wife – or a woman Polyjuiced to appear as her – did this to me. She had a forged marriage certificate to make it look like we had remarried. I will admit that I was not as thorough in my post-divorce cleanup as I should have been; if they couldn't tell that the certificate is a fake, she'll have access to my vault. That was her exact intention."

"The checks," Ginny said, snapping her fingers. "She took a box of your checks."

He nodded. "She wouldn't be able to take all the money; it would arouse suspicion. She probably figured that I would die from the poison and since I was on my own, no one would notice for a few days…giving her a window in which to forge checks for whatever she wanted, using up the money she left behind."

"But wouldn't I notice?" Draco asked. And even as he did, his face went pale.

"What?" Lucius said sharply.

"She's already done it!" he said, his hands curling into fists. "Last night, when I was out, my account stopped working. I called you and you didn't answer. I figured it was just a glitch and could wait until today." He looked ready to be sick. "She took my money, too."

"Impossible," Lucius stated.

"Why?"

"Your account is separate. I learned well enough from my father's sticky fingers that precautions must be taken when it comes to family money. When you graduated Hogwarts, I made it so that your account could only be accessed by you. Neither your mother nor I can access it without your presence and express consent. So, if she made any attempt to go after your money, Draco, it would have set off alarms for the goblins. They probably just froze your account until they could figure out what was going on. Your money is safe. Mine, on the other hand," he sighed, "I'm sure that it is long gone."

"Maybe not," Hermione offered. "Maybe she tried to access Draco's vault first! I bet they caught her."

"Yes, just like they caught us," Harry said sarcastically. Ron coughed. Hermione looked crestfallen.

"That was _true_?" Draco asked incredulously. "You really did break into Gringotts during the war?"

"It was luck," Hermione said weakly.

"Nah, all talent," Harry grinned.

At that moment, the door opened and a goblin scurried in. It made straight for Lucius and ignored everyone else.

"Mr. Malfoy," the goblin said, making a hasty bow. "We have been attempting to owl for hours. Now it is obvious why you didn't answer."

"Yes, Skulblad, I was less than able to respond. I appreciate you coming so quickly."

"It seems as though you have some inkling of what's happened." The goblin sighed. "Your ex-wife, Narcissa Black, came into the bank yesterday evening around 20:30. She claimed that you had remarried and presented a certificate. You had indicated in the positive for the remarriage clause on your vault, Mr. Malfoy, so we honored her certificate and gave her access to your vault."

"What's the remarriage clause?" Hermione asked skeptically.

The goblin turned to eye her. "Well, as you can imagine, young lady, the affairs of wizards and witches can change at a moment's notice and there is a great deal of paperwork and bureaucracy that must go with it. About thirty years ago, we created an option to allow for easy reinstatement of vault privileges after a marital reconciliation, rather than go through all that rigamarole."

"I enabled it after…well, that's not important," Lucius trailed off, thinking of the first and only time (up until three years ago) that he and Narcissa had nearly dissolved their marriage. The poor woman had suffered through two miscarriages in a row and he was heavily pressured by his father to 'find a woman who could bear him an heir, not some barren waif'. The things they had put up with those first few years! They had agreed to try one more time, and if that didn't work, the heartache would be too much to bear. That reunion had resulted in Draco and all else was forgotten in the joy of finally having a baby.

"I should have disabled the clause after the divorce," he sighed, pulling himself from the memories of his son as an infant. "But it was the last thing on my mind at the time." That was not strictly true; if he was honest with himself, he had been hoping against hope that Narcissa would come back to him. Perhaps leaving that clause on his vault had been his last subconscious method of denial.

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy," Skulblad nodded. "We would not have realized that anything was off if she hadn't tried to access your son's vault, as well. As per your orders approximately five years ago, his vault was made inaccessible to anyone but him. Both you and your wife signed for this, so we thought it strange that she would try to access his vault with full knowledge of that prior agreement. Unfortunately, by the time we pieced this all together, she had already left. We froze your son's assets just in case. They can be reopened in approximately ten business days, if we start the paperwork now."

"No convenient clause for that, huh?" Draco muttered under his breath.

The goblin had the grace to look uncomfortable. "No. To our great regret, Mr. Malfoy, your funds are…"

"Gone," Lucius finished. It was not as terrible as he might have thought. He knew he wasn't destitute; he had money in other places. Still, that was a hell of a lot of money to suddenly be deprived of.

"We are terribly sorry, sir."

"That makes two of us."

Skulblad fidgeted. "A small amount remains in your vault: approximately 8,000 galleons. We have frozen your account since we reached the conclusion that she was deceiving us."

"Eight thousand galleons is a _small _amount?" Charlie asked to no one in particular.

"Yes, sir, it is in comparison to the previous total of--"

"Skulblad," Lucius said sharply, "I would appreciate it if my vault's contents, past or present, were kept confidential."

"Of course, sir."

"What's the matter?" Ron grumbled. "Don't want to discuss money with the peasants nearby?"

Molly turned a deathly glare upon him, but her youngest son wasn't in arm's reach. "Hermione, dear, please smack him for me."

Hermione did as requested, and none too gently. She smacked Ron upside his thick head. It left him dazed and indignant.

"Hey!"

"Next time choose us, Mum!" Fred and George chorused simultaneously.

"Oh, no," she said, "I'd never hear the end of it."

"For your information, Mr. Weasley," Lucius stated, only just managing to control his sneer, "it is common tact that dictates that people do not discuss their bank accounts, pay rates, or inheritances. I haven't demanded to know the balance on your family's vault, have I?"

"No," Ron admitted grudgingly. "Never stopped you from holding it against us, though."

Lucius bit the inside of his lip. Tactless or not, the boy was right. It was time for some maneuvering. "Well, you can take comfort in the fact that every person in this room probably has more money than me now. Point and laugh, if you will. I shall try to endure it with as much grace as you did."

"Which was not very much," Arthur chuckled. No doubt he was thinking of the time they had come to fisticuffs.

"It wasn't particularly graceful of me to press that button, anyhow." That was as close to an apology that he could offer. He just wasn't capable of anything more at the moment; his dignity had already been severely bruised by the breathing tube incident.

"I can't believe she would do this!" Draco exploded suddenly, bringing them back to the real crisis. "Why would Mum…? I don't…I don't understand!"

"It wasn't her. I'm absolutely convinced of it," Lucius asserted.

"Mr. Malfoy, the woman in our security images in every way resembles your ex-wife," Skulblad said.

_So did the woman I was kissing, until she jabbed me in the neck and poisoned me,_ he thought. "Polyjuice. Narcissa would not do this. I have wronged her, but never so greatly that she would attempt to kill me. And she would never, ever harm Draco in any way. I would say this woman's attempt to steal his money is proof enough. The woman who defrauded me and your bank is not Narcissa Black."

"Is that possible?" Hermione spoke up. "The Polyjuice, I mean. I thought for sure, after…er…those thieves broke into the Lestrange vault with the Polyjuiced Bellatrix, Gringotts would alter their security protocols."

The goblin actually rolled his eyes. "We know it was the three of you, Ms. Granger. As your actions benefited the greater good, we chose to overlook the fact that you committed no less than thirteen distinct crimes, not to mention completely discrediting our institution, at that time." Skulblad pursed his leathery lips. "I daresay some of the goblins were sympathetic to your cause. The economy was rubbish under that charlatan Voldemort anyhow. We have never had a worse run of business, not since our inception."

"Hermione has a valid point," Harry said after a moment. "There's no protocol for detecting Polyjuice?"

"It is what it is, Mr. Potter. Polyjuice is extremely difficult to detect. We have people working on it constantly but no one has yet figured out a way to test for the potion."

"Then there is no concrete way that we can prove it _wasn't_ my mother?" Draco asked.

"At this time, no."

"It wasn't her," Lucius said firmly.

"I second that," Ginny spoke up, surprising everyone. "She's still in love with you."

"Thank goodness I'm not the only one who noticed," Hermione sighed, relieved.

"What?" Lucius's brain stalled as he looked back and forth between the redhead and Hermione. True, Narcissa had caved to his charms that _one_ time, in this very ward as a matter of fact, but that was far from an admission of continued love.

"She nearly chewed through her lip with worry when you were in here last," Ginny elaborated. "A bitter ex-wife plotting to steal all her husband's money just doesn't sit at his bedside for days and days."

"Or dive _into_ his bed as soon as he's better," Hermione muttered.

Upon the realization that their rendezvous had not been as discrete as he thought, Lucius promptly wished he could disappear. Several people spoke on top of each other.

"What?" Draco blinked, catching on to what Hermione had said.

"You _slept_ together?" Ginny shrieked, and he couldn't tell if she was excited or enraged. "She didn't tell me that!"

"A lady never tells," Molly interjected.

"WAS I IN THE ROOM?" Draco demanded.

"Yes," Hermione answered for him.

Lucius was sure he was turning a delicate shade of scarlet. "Clearly you were not as asleep as we thought."

"That's…disgusting." Draco looked to be on the verge of illness.

"And you were awake, Hermione? Why didn't you just throw something at them?" Harry cracked.

"The same reason I never threw anything at you and Ginny for the three months I lived in Grimmauld Place with you," Hermione shot back. It was Harry's turn to color endearingly. Ginny had no shame; she just shrugged.

"Silencing charms, children," Bill chuckled. "Do we need a refresher course?"

"Oh, because you're so great at them," Percy snarked, his first words since arrival. "When we were teenagers--"

"There is _far_ too much personal information being tossed about in here," Lucius said, trying to regain control of the situation. "As much as I would love to believe that Narcissa's presence when I was injured and her…ah, willingness to, er, engage in a bit of reckless behavior several echelons below our current age group, means that she still loves me…it is irrelevant. It is the attempt to access Draco's vault that gives her away. As Skulblad said, Narcissa knew of the separation of Draco's account, so she would know better than to even try. Paired with the fact that she would never steal her son's money, anyhow, it is enough evidence for me."

"She _does_ still love you," Ginny insisted.

A pain lodged in Lucius's chest. He knew that wherever she was, Narcissa was in terrible danger. Even if she miraculously still loved him, the Milanese mafia was between them. She might already be dead.

"Please don't say that," he murmured, feeling a headache coming on. "I need to talk to Kingsley Shacklebolt."

* * *

Lucius had made his desire not to speak to anyone except the Minister of Magic quite clear, among other things. Arthur herded his reluctant family, including Harry and Hermione, out. Honestly, he felt a little bit bad for the man. It was quite apparent to him, from Lucius's reactions and the look on his face when his ex-wife was mentioned, that he was still quite besotted with her. It was a case of it being obvious to everyone but the two people involved.

Ginny had inherited her mother's instincts; Arthur had no doubt that his daughter was correct in her statement that Narcissa still loved him, as well. Hermione's backup only made it more certain. He wasn't really fond of matchmaking but at present he wished he could deliver a swift kick in the arse to both Lucius and Narcissa. They were wasting time.

Ron couldn't resist a parting shot. As they prepared to leave, his youngest son turned back to Draco, who was leaning in the door frame looking tired.

"So, ferret, how does it feel to be the one who doesn't have any money, for a change?"

The blond's eyes narrowed. "A right sort better than it feels to not have any dignity, I'd imagine."

Arthur paused, ready to break up a fight if necessary. Draco had certainly inherited his father's ability to shred a person with words. To his surprise, Ron and Draco only glared at one another in a grudging stalemate. Harry laughed and shook his head. Then Hermione took Ron by the arm with a long suffering sigh of, "Come along, Ronald." It felt distinctly like some sort of détente as the group began to move down the hallway.

Molly wrapped her arm around his waist and smiled up at him. "I think this is the start of a lovely friendship, don't you?" Her grin indicated a certain level of sarcasm.

"It seems that way," he smiled back. "Mollywobbles, dear, I think you should seriously consider the patenting idea."

"We'll talk about it after I help Ginny with the nursery. Ginevra, did you hear that?"

"Yes, Mum," she sighed. "And here I thought Harry and I might get some privacy so we could have a quickie…"

"Oi!" Fred protested. "You're still our little sister, Gin."

"Yeah, keep your sexual escapades to yourself," Percy agreed.

"We live in a magical world where you are pure and innocent until death," Bill chuckled, reaching out to muss his sister's hair.

"Oh, right, and how do you explain this baby in my uterus?" she retorted with a roll of her eyes.

"Immaculate conception, of course," Charlie nodded. Everyone laughed - except Harry, who was once again turning redder than his old house colors.

* * *

Lorenzo knew something was wrong the moment Narcissa was led out. She was limping and her eyes were red and puffy from crying. The poor thing had almost certainly broken her ankle. The thug that dragged her along was not being particularly gentle or considerate of her injury and that might have been enough to cause the desolate, pained look on her face. Instinctively, he knew that wasn't it.

Giacomo did, too. As soon as she came into view, his advisor's eyes narrowed and filled with rage.

"What did you do to her?" he demanded coldly.

"Shut up," the thug growled.

"If you harm her in any way, I will be the end of you," Giacomo vowed. Lorenzo gaped at him; this was a man who didn't lose his temper and didn't make threats. That, he'd often said, was for lesser men. Then again, Giacomo had never before been in love.

All the fire had drained out of the pretty blonde. She hobbled beside her captor, silent and hollow-eyed. She barely acknowledged the people around her. Lorenzo examined her, feeling more and more concerned. Giacomo had made it abundantly clear how feisty his fiancée was with a limp of his own. It had resolved now, but that didn't change the fact that this Narcissa Black had fought off a man twice her size when she scented danger. Where was her fight now?

"Hurting Ms. Black was not part of the bargain, brother," he snapped at Gaetano, who stood smugly by the door. He said it for Giacomo; he could tell that the other man was barely containing his rage. And considering no one had ever seen Giacomo Cannavare angry, he wasn't eager to start now.

"I have done nothing to her," Gaetano replied, eyeing her with disinterest. "If any harm has come to her, you can blame my wife. She was locked in a pantry with her."

"You are soulless," Giacomo hissed, taking a step forward. "First you betray your brother and now your wife? I have very few kind words for her but she is still your wife!"

"You have no brother to betray, so far as I know, Giacomo. But you, too, have betrayed your would-be wife, or have you forgotten that?" Gaetano shot back. "You are handing her to me now so _my_ dear brother can have _his_ wife back."

"Why do you need her? You've already gotten what you needed from her ex-husband," Lorenzo challenged. He glanced at his first-in-command. Giacomo was poised on the edge of something stupid; they both knew it. If Giacomo lost his head the deal would go sour and he would never see Jocasta again. His children would never see their mother again.

"Insurance, brother," he smirked. He waved a hand and two more people appeared seemingly from nowhere; they had been there all along under a disillusionment charm.

Lorenzo's breath caught in his throat. There was Jocasta, his Jocasta. She was tied and gagged with a purpled bruise across her cheek. Other than that blemish, she looked all right and was actively struggling against the man that held her. He couldn't rip his eyes from the bruise, though. Spots danced before his eyes and suddenly he was as angry as his consigliere.

"How _dare_ you strike my wife!"

"She fell," Gaetano said coldly.

_That is what I will tell the authorities after I push you off my namesake_, Lorenzo thought, envisioning the church of San Lorenzo. _He fell._

"You have always been creative in your threats," Gaetano chuckled, and Lorenzo realized he must have been thinking out loud. Gaetano shot a look at the consigliere. "What, Giacomo, not going to reign in your master?"

"No," the ex-healer snarled. "I will assist him in whatever vengeance he dreams up."

Gaetano was quiet, his eyes detached. At length he said, "Do you want your wife back or not, brother?"

Lorenzo bit his lips. He had to control himself. He was lucky that Gaetano had not already called off the trade. Greedy men in power didn't usually respond well to violent threats. Fortunately, he and Gaetano had always been prone to the occasional fight and in their family, death threats were learned early. Nonetheless, it was better that Jocasta was alive, safe with him but a little bruised, than stuck with Gaetano and his lot. He saw now that he would have to make this up to Giacomo; it was a terrible thing he'd done, asking him to give up his fiancée to the very men he wanted so desperately to save his wife from. Even more terrible was the fact that Giacomo had agreed.

He had asked his advisor to betray the one woman he had ever loved. Even if he had a plan to get her back, there was no guarantee that she would return to a man who had used her as a pawn in a very dangerous game. Lorenzo knew that Giacomo had only done it for him, because his loyalty to the Scattori family came before anything else. Anyone else would have been turned down flat. The guilt compressed his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Yes," he said raggedly. "I want my wife back. But I will have your word, brother, on what little honor is left between us, that no harm will come to Ms. Black."

"I hold all the cards, Enzo. You have nothing to bargain with. Don't insult me."

"Once upon a time I had honor, and loyalty...are those meaningless now?"

Gaetano looked him straight in the eye. "Yes."

* * *

Draco stared at his father. Since the discussion of his mother's supposed love for him, he had been quiet and rather morose. Lucius wasn't one to jump for joy over anything, but this wasn't the reaction he'd expected; he knew his father had taken the divorce hard and it wasn't because of the gossip or the mudslinging. No, the pain in the man's eyes, then and now, spoke of fractured love.

It didn't make sense, not this time around. Hermione and Ginny were saying that Narcissa _still_ loved him. As unpalatable as it was to think about his parents doing anything remotely sexual, it was a good sign that it happened, right? There was no love lost between Draco and Giacomo; he could give two shits if his mother married him or not. He was a decent man, one who probably did love her…but that didn't change the fact that he'd stolen her from her husband who, it turned out, loved her just as much, if not more.

Draco sighed. A creak distracted him a moment later; he turned to see his father sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Hey," he cautioned, "what are you doing? The goblins are taking care of things at Gringotts. Just rest."

Lucius shook his head. He tentatively leaned forward, testing the ability of his muscles to hold him up. The poison must have completely worn off at last; he was able to stand. His physical presence was only slightly diminished by the ridiculous gown the hospital had put him in.

"Where do you think you're going?" Draco demanded.

"Where is my robe?" Lucius replied.

"That's not an answer. It's over there in the cupboard."

Lucius strode over to the indicated cupboard and pulled out the midnight blue robe. Draco looked at it in slight surprise; his mother had bought that on a trip to Paris and he knew that his father hated it. Why had he been wearing that? The only time he'd known him to wear it was when his mother suggested it. Lucius never had the heart to turn her down.

"The short answer is that if Shacklebolt isn't here in the next fifteen minutes, I'm leaving," his father said while digging through the pockets of the robe.

"Dad, I really think you should consider staying at the Manor. These people are obviously out to get you. Your flat isn't safe."

"I won't be staying at either dwelling." He located whatever he was looking for, yanking a stack of parchment from the pocket.

"What?"

Lucius turned to him. "There is more to this whole situation. I didn't want to go into great detail with all the Weasleys here. You should know, though." He held out the parchment. "It's all in there."

Hesitantly, Draco took the parchment. He almost didn't want to read it; he'd already had enough bad news via parchment today. However, his quick eyes tore through the words and the now-familiar (if still exceedingly uncomfortable) panic flared again.

"They've got Mum," he said softly. Now his father's gloom made perfect sense.

Lucius nodded. "Cannavare is a member of the Scattori crime family. Not by blood, but he's in deep enough. I went to Milan to try to get her out of there."

"By yourself?" Draco said sharply.

"Yes, by myself. It would have been fine if they had not Polyjuiced someone to be Narcissa. I was out-planned."

Pieces fell into place. Draco rubbed his temples. "They knew you would come. You grabbed the impostor and brought her back to the flat…"

"Where she poisoned me and left me to die before stealing my money, making it appear for all the world that my ex-wife was enacting vengeance upon me. Meanwhile, your poor mother is probably tied up somewhere, or, Merlin help me, dead…"

"Don't you _dare_ say that!" Draco pointed an accusatory finger at Lucius. "She is not dead."

"How can we be certain? They have her, Draco. They would have to, to make the Polyjuice. What more do they need of her now that they have my money? You know how these organizations work. People are eliminated when they no longer serve any purpose."

Draco knew that his father was right. That was standard Mafia procedure. His mother could very well be dead, but he refused to believe it. He couldn't believe it. He leaned on the back of a chair, struggling to keep his composure.

"So…what do we do now?" he asked. His father had to have a plan.

"Now there is no 'we'," Lucius murmured. He refolded the blue robe and set it on the bed. Draco was quiet, knowing that his father wasn't finished. The other blond stared off into space for a moment. "Have you noticed, dear son, that the news is very slow on the uptake since Rita Skeeter disappeared?"

His grey eyes narrowed. He had, in fact, noticed that very thing. The press was not nearly as aggressive without Skeeter butchering boundaries at every turn.

"True," he allowed. "If Skeeter was here, she would have been in this room before any of us, shoving her Quick Quotes Quill in your face."

"Exactly." His father's eyes narrowed into a familiar expression of absolute slyness. "At this moment, nobody on the outside knows what's gone on. More importantly, no one knows if I am dead or alive, save the Weasleys , the goblins, and the direct hospital staff, of whose silence I am already assured."

Draco caught on quickly. "Are you thinking of playing dead?"

"That I am." He extracted his wand from the folded robe and tapped it idly against his palm. "Do you think you can play devastated son for a time?"

He thought. It would take quite a lot of acting. If he were in a situation where his father was vengefully murdered by his mother, who had also made off with a significant chunk of her late ex-husband's fortune…well, it definitely called for some emotion. He had never been as good of a thespian as his father but he was still better than most.

"I can do it, yes." He frowned. "I would rather help you find mother, though."

A muscle twitched in his father's jaw. "Draco, I have had to live through almost losing you twice. I can't do it again."

Draco blinked, unaccustomed to such bluntness or sentiment. He had to choke back a lump in his throat when he said, "Father, they can come after me here just as easily as if I was with you."

"That is why you will stay at Hogwarts with Hermione. You'll be safe there."

"I have classes, Father. I can't just--"

"They will give you time off to grieve. I don't intend this to take long. The more time goes by, the more danger your mother is in."

Draco blew a breath out between his lips. This man was so much his father, having an answer for everything, and so much a stranger with his declarations of caring. It was that odd combination of behavior that made him agree.

"All right."

* * *

Narcissa knew what was happening; she knew she was being traded, like so much chattel, for Lorenzo Scattori's wife. She couldn't hate him for it; it was what Lucius would have done in Lorenzo's position. But Giacomo had agreed to it. He hadn't put up a fight for her. How could she mean anything to him if he was willing to surrender her like that?

And really, that was irrelevant. Lucius was dead. They had been trying and trying to end him and they had at last succeeded. The means of preventing it had been here all along and she had been too stupid to see…and now he was gone. The pain sliced through her again, causing tears to well in her eyes. She just wanted the earth to swallow her whole in that moment.

She was dragged behind where Gaetano and his lackeys stood. She vaguely noticed the other woman as she passed by, led by another generic burly enforcer. Perhaps Jocasta Scattori was trying to look at her, to say something with her eyes, but Narcissa only saw her feet, one in front of the other as she walked.

Very little could have propelled her out of her depressive fog. However, when she heard Lorenzo Scattori speak, addressing his daughters, her head snapped up. Renata had emerged from wherever she was sequestered and Daniela was trailing behind her. Narcissa immediately tensed. The children should be kept out of this. It wasn't safe for them to be here.

Lorenzo only just managed to untie his wife's hands before Renata launched herself at her mother. The dislike Narcissa had formed for the girl dissolved. Perhaps she was just stressed and her odious behavior stemmed from that. Narcissa had to admit that even she was not on her best behavior during times like these.

However, the newfound affection for the beleaguered teen disappeared a second later, when Renata did not release her mother. Before anyone could do anything, the girl had pulled a wand and stepped behind her mother, pressing the tip against the woman's throat. Narcissa's mouth fell open, and she was not the only one.

"Renata!" Lorenzo's cry was fierce and betrayed. "Drop that _now_!"

"No, Papa," she responded, tightening her grip. Jocasta was still gagged; she couldn't say anything, though her eyes had filled with agony.

"Deceitful child!" Giacomo thundered, pulling his own wand.

"Giacomo, no!" Lorenzo barked. The consigliere fired no spell, but kept his wand raised. That was when Narcissa felt a wand touch her own throat. Her fiancé didn't need a verbal warning; he immediately dropped the wand.

"Renata," Lorenzo tried again. "Renata, please! This cannot be your choice. I cannot have my own daughter be my enemy."

"I am not your enemy, Papa," she retorted. "The Mancinis are your enemy and you have grown blind to this! This is the only way."

Lorenzo's attention turned to his brother. The hatred that filled his eyes was almost inhuman.

"What did you do to her?" he shouted. "What have you done to my daughter?"

Gaetano shouted back, mirroring his anger. "I have let her find the way, brother. You have lost yours and in doing so lost all of us!" He twirled his wand between his fingers for a short moment before raising it. "And your first mistake was ever listening to _him_." The wand settled on Giacomo.

Narcissa could see the way he evaluated his chances in his eyes. He was not so unlike Lucius, really; there was that quick, calculating flash during which he considered the odds of his situation, of being able to recover his wand before someone hit him with a spell. Then there was the solidarity of decision, reached in seconds. Giacomo wasn't even going to try. And Lorenzo Scattori certainly wasn't going to risk stopping his brother when his wife and daughters remained on the battlefield, two defenseless and the other a traitor.

For the first time in hours, Narcissa felt something other than sorrow. She was…_enraged_. How dare they! How _dare_ they murder her ex-husband and then try to murder her future one! Giacomo's actions didn't matter; Lorenzo had forced his hand. She saw in the way he'd dropped his wand when they threatened her how he really felt. Damned if she was going to let them take another man from her!

Gaetano was waving his wand. "Avada ked--"

Her melancholy had lulled her guard into a false sense of security. He wasn't holding on to her. Narcissa lunged, knowing it might be the last thing she ever did.

She caught Gaetano's wrist and wrenched it upwards just as he was finishing the curse. The jet of deadly green light flew wildly off course, crashing into the ceiling and leaving a black, scorched mark.

"_Vacca!_" the thwarted man hissed. A second later, as expected, Gaetano's fist met her cheek.

The man could punch. Stars exploded behind her eyes, red and green, and then burst in a flare of yellow as she hit the wall. Yellow was quickly followed by an all-consuming black. She tried to fight it, desperate to see whether it had made any difference or if Giacomo would fall dead anyway, but the tide of unconsciousness claimed her like a rip current.


	20. Chapter 19

What Narcissa's unconsciousness prevented her from seeing was that her impulsive behavior had, in fact, spared the man she was equally in love and in hate with. Giacomo could never be accused of being indecisive. Though every part of him screamed to stay, to fight for his woman and Lorenzo's, he knew what end that would have. He would be dead. His battle for Narcissa couldn't be won by blind attack, not when Gaetano held so many cards and when neither the boss nor the advisor knew exactly what was going on in their city.

So he lunged for his wand, which sat innocuously a few feet away from him on the marble floor. In doing so he evaded a stunner; if he had stayed upright, he would be as unconscious as his fiancée right now. The sliver of wood in hand, he dove for Lorenzo, who had curled his arm about his youngest daughter and pulled his wand fiercely. The look in his eyes said he had every intention of fighting.

Giacomo understood the incoherent cry of rage that came from the man when he crashed into him, sandwiching Daniela between them, and apparated. This was a battle that couldn't be won, but one in which Lorenzo's losses at retreat had been greater. He had been tricked, scorned by his own brother, and lost his wife and daughter to different, yet equally grievous forms of betrayal. Giacomo had only the guilt of allowing Narcissa to become involved to plague him. That was powerful, yet nowhere near what was surely going through the head of Lorenzo Scattori.

He took them to Perugia, to the house of his paternal grandmother that he had inherited but had been forced to leave unused upon his initiation into Milan's underbelly. No one knew of the place. They would be safe here until they figured out their next move.

Lorenzo sank to the dusty wooden floor, Daniela clenched in his arms. The little girl was crying. She was terrified and disheartened by the way her sister had so callously betrayed all of them. She was young, but the language of duplicity was easily understood. Still, it was plain to see that the girl had idolized her older sister, so this was quite a shock to her system.

Giacomo blew out a sigh. He was worried about Daniela, who was in fact his goddaughter. From the moment of her birth he had known there was something different about her. She was too compassionate, too sensitive and trusting, for the family she was born into. He knew that there were things that could change that, but he'd hoped she would never have to encounter them.

Now she had. Only time would tell how the nine-year-old, nearly ten, would react. He had only Renata to judge by; there were no other Scattori children. If they made it through this he was going to tell Lorenzo to ban the name. It bore no luck the first time around and even less the second. There was no use in cursing another girl with the suffering or the sins of the first two Renatas.

He could hope against hope that the current Renata would regain her senses. Things would never be the same, it was true, but she was young and rash and perhaps she would see the tinge of her uncle's insanity before it was too late. He wasn't overly optimistic, though. Very few people could deliver their own mother into the hands of the enemy at wandpoint without so much as a flinch.

Lorenzo was hugging his daughter to his chest and breathing deeply and rhythmically, attempting to control his rage. It wouldn't do to lose it with the traumatized girl around. Giacomo was glad he didn't have to remind him of that.

It wasn't that Giacomo wasn't angry. He was, angrier than he had been in a long time, and he'd come closer to hexing someone's face off than he'd like to admit. The rage was there, simmering beneath the surface, but he had always been a little too good at suppressing it in favor of a cool head. Eventually it would get the better of him. Heaven help his enemy then.

"_Somnolenta,"_ he heard Lorenzo say. Promptly, Daniela's sniffling calmed. Giacomo looked over to see her drooping against her father's chest, knocked out by the illegal sleeping charm. It was illegal because its most common use had devolved into a way to take advantage of women; it was the wizarding equivalent of GHB. However, given the circumstances and the benign application, Giacomo felt no scandal in its use.

"There is a bed," Giacomo said as gently as he could. "Second door on the right."

Lorenzo nodded and lifted his daughter. A few minutes later he returned. He looked hollow; only fury kept his spine straight and his legs strong. Giacomo knew what he needed – what they both needed.

If there was one thing his grandmother had been known for, it was her ability to drink – and do everything else – like a sailor. The woman had been around and everyone knew it; she made it impossible not to. Somehow it just made everyone love her more. No matter that she'd been tarting around well into her hundreds; the general consensus, at least in the village he'd grown up in, was that if you still had it at that age, there was no reason not to enjoy it. The old men certainly did.

Not surprisingly, her liberal consumption of homemade grappa had caught up to her and she had died of cirrhosis at 114. She was remorseless and in complete denial, of course, and they had all been sure to keep her thoroughly drunk during her last days. A smile twitched at his lips in memory. He had been seventeen at the time, her favorite (and only) grandson. It seemed like another life.

He'd bet his left testicle that some of her grappa was still here. And, as she'd believed that no good booze should ever go to waste, it was preserved with the best of charms. He only had to find it.

Lorenzo hadn't even the energy to look at him like he was mad when he searched for the loose floorboard. He sat, somehow managing to be tense and boneless at the same time, in one of the dusty, outdated chairs. Giacomo's search was rewarded quickly. Bless the old strumpet.

"Is drinking wise right now?" was all Lorenzo said, and weakly.

"When you taste this, it will seem very wise."

Giacomo knew it wasn't so much tasting as grimacing and feeling several of your vital organs failing, but that was just what they needed. In situations like this, very strong alcohol often had a mind-clearing affect – in a paradoxical, brain-scrambling sort of way. He thought about searching out glasses but there was no point. He uncapped the bottle and with only a cursory sniff (Nonna's preservative charms were truly miraculous) he took a much larger swig than was prudent.

He couldn't control the shudder and cough. Sweet Circe, that wasn't much better than rubbing alcohol. It had the impact of smelling salts – so odious that it jarred him into complete alertness and chased the shadows out of his brain.

"That's encouraging," Lorenzo said, observing him. Giacomo looked his companion over. Then he held out the bottle.

"Just drink it."

Lorenzo did. He almost spit it out, but managed to force it down. He coughed and looked for a moment like he was being tortured.

"Hell and damnation," he rasped, "are you trying to poison me?"

"Would I have drunk first if I was?"

"Point taken." Lorenzo handed the bottle back. Giacomo capped it and returned it to its hiding spot beneath the floorboards. After fixing the trick board back in place so they wouldn't accidentally break their legs, he took the seat across from Lorenzo.

All was quiet for a moment. Giacomo could see that the grappa had the desired effect. Lorenzo was calm, his eyes gone from forlornly furious to calculating.

"We have to warn the Mancinis."

Giacomo stifled his sigh of relief. "Yes. The question is, how? And how do we know that they aren't already compromised?"

"I'll take the risk." Enzo's mouth twisted slightly. "Desi will not betray us. I will not…I cannot let their families be put in danger like ours."

"We are severely outnumbered."

"Mm-hm."

"We could walk into a trap."

"Yes."

"But we're going to do it anyway."

"Exactly."

And neither man could pretend for even a second that they didn't know why.

* * *

Lucius was very comfortable negotiating. In fact, it was where he was most in his element. He had negotiated with many Ministers of Magic before Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley was more and less reasonable in equal portions.

If there was one thing Lucius liked about him, it was his aplomb. The man could walk into a hurricane and be the only thing that came out on the other side unscathed. He didn't bat an eye when Lucius told him about the mob, Skeeter's connections to it, and the current precarious situation. He did, however, make a dubious face when it became clear that Lucius wanted to take on the entire city of Milan on his own.

"Even with the freedom being dead would afford you, it's incredibly dangerous, Mr. Malfoy."

"Please, I think we're past that. It's Lucius."

"Lucius, then – and it's Kingsley. I hate being called Minister. It makes me feel old and religious."

"Both dreadful, of course."

Kingsley couldn't control the uptick of his lips. He had expressed a desire never to see Lucius again, but somehow the man in question thought Shacklebolt was more entertained by Slytherin scheming than he let on. What house had he been in at Hogwarts? Had the imposing man even gone to Hogwarts? Lucius frowned. Those were questions for another day, when he wasn't burning through with a mission.

He needed no one's permission, but cooperation would be useful. That was why he was even bothering to run things by Shacklebolt. So far he couldn't say if the ex-auror was receptive or merely a good listener.

"Lucius, I understand your worry for your ex-wife. However, you don't need to be a vigilante; the auror department will be more than happy to rescue her. That is their job. They can contact the Italian authorities - "

"The Italian authorities were most likely bought off decades ago, and if not, they have definitely been bought off now. They will be no help."

Kingsley sighed. "It is true that you have more experience in the mindset of these people than me." His dark eyes flashed up briefly. "I mean no disrespect…or at least, not very much."

"None taken. Your comments are warranted." Lucius bit his lip. "Now, brace yourself, because I'm going to be completely honest with you – and if you breathe a word of it to anyone…"

Kingsley quirked a brow. "What happened to 'don't threaten the Minister'?"

"That was for Potter's benefit, not mine."

"Okay. Proceed with your honesty." Kingsley Shacklebolt was smiling.

Lucius was not. He hated wearing his heart on his sleeve, but it was necessary. "I will let no one stand between Narcissa and I, not this time. I will go to Milan and burn the city to the ground if it means saving her. I don't truly need your approval or your assistance, but I would like to have it. I am trying to be a better man but this fight is not one that cares for scruples; I will overlook some of mine if I have to." He sat back, crossing one knee over the other, aware that he still looked ludicrous in the hospital dressing gown. "If Gaetano Scattori is successful with his coup in Milan, it will be another fifteen years of mafia warfare there. And since we do not truly know the scope of the plot, it could, ostensibly, be much worse. I don't think anyone in the European wizarding community can take the thought of another needless war at present."

"What are you asking me, Lucius?"

Good. Shacklebolt wasn't going to play obtuse.

"I am asking you to grant me temporary auror status and rights. Aurors do what is necessary in situations like this and meet with no punishment for it, as long as it is within certain parameters."

"I won't license murder."

"I'm not asking you to." Lucius lifted his chin. "You have my word that I won't kill anyone. Regardless of whatever rumors you may have heard, I am not a murderer."

"I'd like to believe you, Lucius, but this is personal. Our passions tend to get the better of us. You've told me you would burn a city to the ground to save your ex-wife and I don't doubt it."

"Figure of speech."

"Is it?"

Lucius stared at him, stone-faced. Shacklebolt considered.

"I will have your word and more, Lucius. A blood oath, if you're healthy enough for that."

He nodded. "The terms?"

"I expect you to behave as a real auror would. You kill no one, unless it is in pure self defense and that is the last and only option. No dark magic. No torture, mutilation, or disfigurement."

Lucius considered. "I agree to all except the torture." When Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow, he went on. "Have you forgotten that I was subject to several long, arduous, and dare I say it, _torturous _interrogations at the hands of your aurors?" It was the truth. That neck brace he'd borne in his Azkaban mug shot had not been a result of the battle in the Department of Mysteries. They'd done a wondrous job glamouring all his cuts and bruises. Still, they had nothing on the Dark Lord.

"I don't condone physical torture, Lucius. I wasn't the head auror on your case." He tilted his bald head to the side. "You told them nothing, anyway, so it was useless."

Lucius wanted to point out that that didn't make it any less painful or humiliating. It was definitely the case that a few angry aurors were vastly less imaginative and vindictive than the Dark Lord, but if he had the choice of being beaten senseless or not, he'd choose not.

"No physical torture," he allowed. "But grant me psychological. These people aren't just going to tell me what I want to know and right now I have no money to bribe with."

Kingsley sighed. "Fine. Psychological…tactics are allowed. Nothing more."

"Done," Lucius said immediately.

Kingsley pulled his wand from the pocket of his robes. "If you break the oath, Lucius, you will go back to Azkaban."

He held out his hand, fearless. If Shacklebolt was looking for a reaction, a balk at the mention of the prison, he wasn't going to get one. As easily as he'd burn Milan down, he'd walk straight into Azkaban if that was what it took to save Cissa. He hoped it wouldn't come to that but if it did he wouldn't hesitate.

Shacklebolt made the cut with his wand and Lucius watched the blood well. Such a strange thing, blood was; just plasma and cells, but so vital, so important, and sometimes people made it _too_ important. He'd been guilty of that once.

The incantations were spoken, the conditions elaborated, and then it was done. Lucius didn't feel any different. Ah, but everything was different now.

"All right," Kingsley said, after healing his hand. "As of this moment, you're dead. I'll have the healer issue a death certificate and…" here he winced, "glamour a body to look like you. Everyone who has seen you alive will be contacted and placed under oaths to remain quiet. If you can wait ten more minutes, I will go to the Ministry and complete the documents to grant you temporary auror status and get you a license…which will of course have to be done rather discreetly since you're dead…"

Lucius was impressed. If Shacklebolt hadn't been a Slytherin, he'd at least been a Ravenclaw. And if he hadn't gone to Hogwarts, he wondered what institution had produced him. Perhaps he ought to have sent Draco _there_, though Draco was doing just fine nowadays.

"I can wait ten minutes."

"Good." Shacklebolt stood, smoothing his robes. "Oh, and Lucius, once you find Narcissa, be sure to contact me before you return. She'll be a fugitive and I don't want any misunderstandings before I can clear the air."

Lucius nodded, fully aware of what he was saying. A familiar thrum of energy shot through him. The game was on, the stakes were high, and he didn't intend to lose.

* * *

Draco sighed. This wasn't going to be as hard as he thought. The stress of thinking about the madness his father was getting up to was forcing some very convincing expressions of angst upon him. He felt like he couldn't sit still.

It wasn't that he doubted his father. He knew what the man was capable of. If anyone could save his mother, it was him. But this was twice they'd nearly killed him and his adversary wasn't stupid. Faking his death would give Lucius a much-needed shroud for whatever he got up to; yet, all it took was one incident of serendipity and his cover could be blown. It all left too much to chance for Draco to be comfortable.

He'd agreed, though, and his father was already setting things in motion. Words couldn't express how strange it was to be brought down to the morgue and shown a body glamoured to look like his father, _with_ his father, so they could approve it. It would appear as though Draco had gone through the same procedure any relative would when a loved one died and they got that awful letter.

That was the story. Ginny, Harry, and Hermione found his father's body when they brought the dogs over to visit. They had borrowed Oberon for the last few weeks so that the puppies could have the benefit of both parents, so it wasn't unreasonable. As his father's flat was in muggle London, no one could really say that there had been no dogs present when the three of them stormed his father's flat. And if anyone wanted to, memory charms worked wonders.

So yes, they'd dropped by with the dogs and gotten an unfortunate surprise. Draco, too, had gotten an unfortunate surprise, sitting in class in Philadelphia when the letter arrived. Now all he had to do to seal the story was write to Finley Greene and relate that his father had died, after all.

He was having difficulty doing it. He hated to lie to them. It had been so long since he had a real friend, let alone a half dozen of them, and he knew the fastest way to lose a friend was to lie (and be found out). And this was one of those karmic lies, the kind you should never tell lest they come true. Still, lying was much easier than explaining the whole blasted situation. He sighed and sat back discontentedly.

"Having a problem, Mr. Malfoy?" Minerva McGonagall's voice cut through his glum attempts at correspondence.

"You could say that," he replied. She didn't know, either. It was easier to lie to her, though, as he'd never considered her a friend. She wasn't an enemy, either. It was only natural that she'd be curious as to why he was here, sitting morosely in the Restricted Section of the library so students wouldn't bother him. Hermione had let him in.

"May I be of assistance?" the headmistress asked.

Draco took a deep breath and resolved to practice the lie before he put it on paper.

"Not unless you can bring back the dead."

She frowned, her face showing signs that it was something she did far too often. "That's not something within the scope of my abilities. Hopefully, it is not in the scope of anyone's; we have all seen the results of tampering with the natural order of things."

Indeed they had, and his name was Voldemort. "I know."

"Who is it that you wish to bring back?"

She didn't beat around the bush, did she? For once he appreciated it. "My father," he whispered, letting it leach out of him like a confession.

"Your father…? He's…passed on?"

"Yes." This misery was far too easy. Draco had the sinking feeling that he wasn't really doing very much acting and had no idea why. "Earlier. It'll be in the papers in the morning."

To her credit, she didn't push for details. However like a spinster she appeared, McGonagall was far from lacking when it came to motherly instinct. "I'm sorry, Draco."

"You and three other people."

Her lips pinched together briefly. "Draco, your father…made his mistakes. There are those who will decry him, but the people who knew him, truly knew him, will mourn him. Perhaps not outright - there is too much paranoia and secrecy in your house to permit that – but you aren't alone in your loss."

He looked up at the woman. He was beginning to see why Hermione loved her so dearly. Draco decided to ask something he had wondered about for a long, long time, because this might be the only opportunity to do so.

"What was he like? When he was here, in school?"

She leaned her forearms on the table and her face relaxed slightly as she let herself travel back in time. "Well, your father came in like anyone else: young, eager, and impressionable. By his seventh year…if there is a male equivalent of the queen bee, he was it." McGonagall surveyed him. "He was a contradiction in many ways. He had Slytherin house easily in hand, yet he was never demonstrative or confrontational in spite of his beliefs. He was a good prefect and an excellent Head Boy. By all reports he was fair to everyone, even halfbloods and muggleborns. We weren't so foolish as to think that he wasn't terribly clever and that he didn't believe himself above much of the student body, but he kept it to himself and his group of friends. Many of us were…quite confused when he aggressively pursued the pureblood agenda after graduation. We knew what he believed but he had never been so blatant about it."

Draco listened to her, processing her words; they were simple on the surface, but held a wealth of meaning underneath. Though he had spoken with his father more candidly after the war, his youth was still a gaping hole full of question marks; he simply didn't talk about it. Somewhere in there he'd gone from passably tolerant (or certain of his own superiority, that could masquerade as the same thing) to a complete hate-monger. What brought him to that? He might never know.

"I have no answers for you as to why," McGonagall said, seemingly reading his mind. "I'm not certain that anyone does; anyone who is alive, anyhow. Perhaps you should speak to the portraits of your grandparents."

Draco controlled a grimace. He'd spoken to his grandmother a few times; she was pleasant enough. His grandfather struck him as an imperious bastard. If his father's placement of his portrait in a distant and rarely used study was any indication, Lucius felt the same way. His grandfather had almost certainly had something to do with it. A mild feeling of nausea coiled in Draco's stomach. Too many unanswered questions and too many possibilities always made him feel that way.

"How can you do it?" he blurted. "How can you watch the next generation come in ready to make the same mistakes as their fathers, over and over?"

McGonagall looked completely stunned. "Mr. Malfoy…what a child learns at his parents' knee is very difficult to contend with. You can tell someone again and again that it is all utter tosh, that everyone is equal and happiness and daisies, but what teenager ever listens, especially when he is surrounded by others who were brought up the same way? The change of heart must occur in the person in question. He must find his own opinion amidst the sea of opinions people force upon him. Some are capable of this and some aren't." She speared him with a thoughtful, if sympathetic gaze. "Both you and your father proved capable of that change, though in different timeframes and with different experiences. Now it is up to you, Draco, to ensure that _your_ children do not repeat your mistakes, or your father's, or his father's, and I'll continue to do my best to preach equality to every bullheaded and entitled teenager that comes through my door."

Draco had to crack a smile at the tone in her voice. She was right, of course. Bullheaded and entitled were certainly a few of the kinder adjectives that would describe him in his teen years. "I didn't mean it in a blaming way," he said, wanting to be clear on that. "I meant it…existentially. Psychologically."

"Oh," she said, instantly less prickly. "Well, it is certainly frustrating and heartbreaking at times, but things are changing."

Draco thought of Hermione. He thought of her face, her brown eyes, serious and cheerful in equal parts, her pink lips, and the fountain of curls that were as untamable as she was. He wondered if his father thought of his mother with the same fondness. He must; quite suddenly Draco knew that he would go to the same lengths as his father if Hermione was ever in danger.

He sighed. Things were most definitely changing. There could be no more doubt about that.

* * *

The letter was written and posted. In a few hours his classmates and professor would know that his father had been murdered and that he needed at least two weeks to deal with everything. It had come out haltingly after the conversation with McGonagall. He knew they would all be supportive – except Henric, of course, if he was even still there. He hoped obliquely that the German didn't leave the program. An opportunity to work with Finley Greene was too good to give up because of a silly grudge. Draco didn't think himself so intolerable that Henric couldn't just deal quietly and resentfully with his presence. However, he wasn't in the man's head and didn't care to be.

Hermione had returned from Harry and Ginny's. All the Weasleys and The Boy Who Continued to Live had agreed to play their parts. It wasn't particularly difficult for them to do because they weren't known for liking his father or his family very much. They only needed to be as bewildered as everyone else.

He was lying next to Hermione now. He knew they were both awake, kept so by worry. Draco was worried about what he would have to face in the next few days. People would be cruel. People would say terrible things. There were going to be a hundred Henrics to deal with. He was going to have to bear it with some kind of composure to make what they said meaningless. That was always easier said than done.

Hermione was worried about his father. He was, too, but not as much as Hermione. In spite of everything that had happened in their lives, his confidence in his father was still nigh unshakable. Hermione, however, couldn't and didn't share that viewpoint. He appeared far too mortal to her lately. She was worried sick.

They were both scared to death for his mother.

"They'll be all right," Draco said, for what was probably the twentieth time.

"I know," she replied. Her small hand covered his where it rested on her stomach. "Will you?"

He smiled into her curls. "I think so." _As long as I have you._ He wished he could say it out loud, but the time wasn't right, not just yet. Draco shifted, stretching out on top of her and pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

They lay like that for a long time, Hermione's body cradling his.

"I want to make love to you," he said, toying with one of her curls. "But I'm too nervous."

"Me too," she admitted. She took the opportunity to run her hands through his hair, so pale and fine and soft. "We'll save it for tomorrow when we're angry and strung out. It'll be better that way."

He wrapped his arms around her and smiled faintly. "At least I have _something _to look forward to."

* * *

Kingsley was tired. It had been a long night. At first he had overseen the cover-up of Lucius's very much alive state. Then he had contacted the Daily Prophet and spent hours coordinating with all the necessary entities – Gringotts, the Auror Department, and others – to ensure that when the news broke, it would be with a minimum of vitriol. There were many people who didn't hold a high opinion of Lucius Malfoy and they were entitled to that, but he wanted this to be as easy as possible on the man's son. Whatever was said wouldn't stick to Lucius, but it would get beneath Draco's skin.

Dennis Creevey, one of the Prophet's star reporters, had proven to be very professional and ethical in the handling of the article. Hermione had suggested him, so it wasn't much of a surprise. Kingsley hoped the tone of the article would stave off much of the ugliness that could erupt.

In the two hours of night that were left after he finished his meetings, he had sat at his desk, staring into space and wondering if he'd done the right thing. Lucius had sworn in no uncertain terms that he would act honorably in his quest, but a Slytherin interpretation of conditions was always different. He would bend the rules. People would be left miserable and terrorized if they got in his way. However, Kingsley had to admit that _he'd_ left some people miserable and terrorized during his prime as an auror, so he wasn't one to talk.

It surprised him how worried he was that Lucius would actually die. Aurors were team players. It was disconcerting for him to know that Lucius was on his own. He toyed briefly with the idea of assigning him a partner, someone who would watch out for him from a distance, but he could think of no one that was qualified or clever enough. Besides, the Italian Ministry would not take kindly to him sending one undercover auror in, let alone two.

That wasn't his problem. They were clearly looking the other way when it came to the Mafia's dealings. He would be justified in his actions because an English citizen was involved and because two of the members of the organization were wanted in England for attempted murder. It was the Italians that would look bad, because of the corruption inherent in ignoring what was happening in Milan.

It could sour relations with them, but somehow Kingsley thought they'd rather be rid of the Mafia war, too. Only time would tell. He rubbed his eyes and called a house elf for a pot of coffee. Just after the elf set the pot and a large mug on his desk, someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," he sighed.

The young woman, all glasses and teeth, stepped in. She was the morning secretary, who worked from 5 am to noon. Her name was Eleanor and in spite of her gawkishness, he liked her. She was a perfect sweetheart and always took down his messages with obsessive attention to detail, which was more than could be said for the other two secretaries. Not to mention that she'd come in two hours early to help manage the monumental task of organizing everyone who needed to be involved in this protracted death announcement and its accompanying scandal.

"It's here, sir," she said, holding out the morning's copy of the Prophet. "Thought you might want to see it."

Kingsley took the paper with some trepidation. It was somewhat ironic that this, the most shocking thing that had happened in the wizarding community in a while, was completely false. But Eleanor didn't know that and neither did anyone else who would gape at the Prophet in a few hours.

"Thank you, Eleanor," he smiled. "Go take a nice long coffee break."

She nodded and let herself out. Kingsley unfolded the paper and braced himself.

**MURDER MOST BLACK**

Oh, Merlin, they hadn't really used that as a headline, had they? But there it was, glaring out at him in huge letters. The article took up the entire front page and was framed with pictures. The pictures caught his attention more than anything else; they were chronological and varied, starting on the bottom left with a couple he didn't recognize. He concluded that the child, pink-cheeked and impossibly blond, had to be Lucius. The woman holding him and smiling serenely was his mother, and the man who stood stiffly behind them must have been Abraxas Malfoy. Above that was a picture of three girls, all opposites. There was one raven-haired, heavy-eyed girl on the left, a whip-thin, anemic looking blonde girl in the middle, and a vivacious brunette on the right. The Black sisters, Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Andromeda, at ages 7, 6, and 8, the caption said. Then it went on to Hogwarts portraits, Lucius typically devastating in his 17-year-old smugness and Narcissa no longer anemic, but radiant and unquestionably beautiful.

Then there was a picture from Lucius and Narcissa's wedding. It had been quite a society event, naturally. Both looked impeccable, if not deliriously happy; they managed an approximation of contentment which was about all that one could expect of an arranged marriage. The delirious happiness came in the next picture, in which they held a newborn Draco between them. The pose was almost identical to the one Lucius's parents had struck, though there was nothing stiff about the way Lucius stood and there was a genuine smile on his face.

There were a few of them with Draco at varying ages. Kingsley had to smile at the one in the top left corner. It was a shot that someone had taken of Lucius and Narcissa standing proudly with Draco at Platform 9 ¾, no doubt before his first journey to Hogwarts. They had their arms around each other and were smiling placidly. Draco, on the other hand, looked positively bratty and annoyed.

From there the pictures were less positive. One of Lucius during the Chamber of Secrets scandal, during which he'd been integral in getting Dumbledore temporarily dismissed as headmaster of Hogwarts. Sitting in the Minister's box at the Quidditch World Cup, where he'd later taken part in the attack on the campsites, or so it was speculated – he'd never confessed to it. Then his Azkaban mug shot. His guilt hadn't been solidified until then.

Then there was a picture of the small family huddled together in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, post battle, shell-shocked yet refreshingly human. Lucius handing his wand over to the Wizengamot. Separate shots of both Lucius and Narcissa during their divorce proceedings; both of them looked tired, drawn, and miserable. Narcissa standing in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa with her paramour, Giacomo Cannavare. Lucius in muggle clothing, walking two grey dogs unassumingly, and another shot of him coming out of Tesco with a few bags – how long had the paparazzi been after him? Then the infamous shot of Hermione in his arms outside that restaurant, where he looked simultaneously surprised and defiant. Toward the end, there was one of the pictures of him playing muggle football, attractively sweaty and athletic with a smear of dirt on his leg.

The last two pictures were of Draco. In one, he sat in the waiting room of St. Mungo's, his head in his hands. In the last he was embracing Hermione, his distress clear in his posture even though his face was mostly turned away. Kingsley sighed heavily. The pictures were well-played; they showed Lucius as the flawed human he was, neither excusing nor berating the course his life had taken. It was the same for Narcissa, but she would unquestionably come out as the villain in this – though there were probably some who would congratulate her on a job well done.

Taking a large sip of his coffee before it went cold, Kingsley settled in to read what Creevey had written. No matter what was printed, it was going to be a very long day.

* * *

Narcissa woke fuzzily and instantly wished she hadn't. Her head was throbbing, an excruciating pound that made her gasp. She moaned and brought a hand up to cover her eyes. Then the pain in her ankle made itself known once again, adding to her rude awakening.

"Thank Merlin, you are awake," a soft, accented voice drifted over her.

Against her better judgment, she parted her fingers and looked for who it was. There was an olive-skinned brunette leaning over her, with mottled hazel eyes and pillowy lips marred by chapping and cracks. Jocasta, the woman she was supposed to be traded for.

"My head," was all Narcissa could force out, on the verge of tears.

"Yes, he hit you very hard. I cleaned your wound so it won't become infected. There isn't much I can do for the concussion, though."

"How long?"

"About ten hours." The other woman sat back on her heels and shook her head. "I was beginning to worry that you would not wake up."

Details began to trickle back to her, detached flashes of everything that had happened. She remembered the green light of death, the way it had been averted, but Giacomo and Lorenzo were outnumbered and had a little girl to protect…

"Are they dead?" she whispered.

"No," Jocasta said. "They escaped with Daniela. You probably gave them the distraction they needed." She looked away for a moment, and when her eyes returned they were glassy with tears. "Thank you. Thank you for caring for my daughters and thank you for being brave enough to fight."

Narcissa said nothing. What could she say to a woman who was the reason she was here, yet she pitied so intensely because of her daughter's betrayal? There weren't any words for it. She closed her eyes, trying to weather the pain.

"Don't fall asleep," Jocasta said a few minutes later. "It is dangerous."

Narcissa made a sound of acknowledgment. The pain began to settle into a dull, steady pulse as she acclimated to it. As long as she breathed and willed herself to be calm, to be blank, she could bear it.

Jocasta settled herself against the wall next to her. The woman's presence was comforting, even if Narcissa's feelings about her were in a raging conflict. She supposed she might as well get used to her; they would be seeing a lot of one another, being that they were imprisoned together. And really, none of this was her fault. Men did strange things for love, to be sure; however, that left Narcissa to wonder whether Giacomo's behavior meant that he loved Lorenzo and the Scattoris more than her.

Time passed in that measureless way it did in captivity. Narcissa tried to stay awake and wished she could just drift off into the dizzy ether that settled behind her eyes. A foot away, Jocasta sat stewing, wondering if her husband and his advisor would be able to get their act together and save them or if she would just have to do it her goddamn self.


	21. Chapter 20

The next morning brought more clarity for Narcissa. Her head didn't throb so persistently anymore. It hurt but it wasn't the piercing pain that had incapacitated her yesterday.

Jocasta was still asleep. She looked at the other woman, to the soft slackness of her face as she slumbered on. She was very pretty, a typical dark Mediterranean beauty who bore a certain air of indomitability about her. It was easy to see why Lorenzo loved her.

Nonetheless, it still stung. It still itched and stabbed how Giacomo had betrayed her. Her very own sister could have asked her to sacrifice her husband to save Rodolphus, and no matter how she loved her or believed in family loyalty, she wouldn't have done it. One person's love wasn't more important than another's.

She couldn't hate Jocasta, though. The woman had taken care of her when there was no need to. Narcissa wasn't sure she would have done the same. They were both women of questionable morals, having supported husbands who participated in dangerous and illegal organizations, and as such they were not prone to selflessness.

They were in the same boat now, though. Their fates were intertwined and there was no choice but to help each other. Personal feelings about the actions of others had no place. With that firmly decided, Narcissa stood and began to examine their cell.

That was really what it was - a cell. She knew all about homes with dungeons beneath them; this was another fine example. The smell in the air told her there was water nearby. She hoped that meant they were back at the villa in Capri. Unfortunately, Italy was a peninsula and there were lots of places near water. Realistically, they could be anywhere.

She sighed. This would require a more Slytherin approach. Most people would be eager to blast their way out first. It wouldn't behoove them to do that. First they needed to figure out exactly where they were. Then they needed to know who was there with them. An informed escapee was always better than a clueless one. After they had a handle on the current situation, they could worry about finding their way out.

Narcissa was confident that Gaetano hadn't brought her here to kill her. If he was going to do that, it would have happened already. He had some purpose for her yet…and she was glad of that, but not looking forward to finding out what that purpose was. The fact of the matter was that he had two very beautiful women locked up and he had just severed ties with his wife.

But there was no time to think of the implications. Hopefully, if they acted intelligently enough, there wouldn't _be_ any implications. Blowing out a shaky breath, Narcissa sat back down and tried to think.

She wished she could pace. She hadn't realized until that last year of the war how calming and thought-stimulating pacing was. Lucius was prone to it when a problem arose; it was easy to conjure an image of him traversing his study over and over while he tried to outsmart everything and everyone. Mostly, the repetitive click of his expensive shoes annoyed her and she would shout at him to go into a room with a carpet. Then, the year he was in prison, she had discovered the comfort of what she had always considered a bad habit.

Her ankle was still too swollen and painful to do anything more than limp a few feet. That was yet another reason they had to take their time. What good was she if she couldn't flee when the time came? Unless they found a broom, she was screwed.

Her injury had certainly worked in Scattori's favor. Cursing under her breath, Narcissa gingerly examined her ankle. It was inflamed almost beyond recognition and bruising spread in weals of red and purple all over her foot. It didn't hurt as much but it was obvious that it was not a minor injury. It needed healing, and if it didn't get it, it would take weeks to heal on its own. Perhaps if she could get some kind of splint…

"I felt the bones while you were unconscious," Jocasta said, punching through her thoughts. "It seems like they are all where they're supposed to be. But I'm no healer."

"Nor am I," Narcissa sighed. "Maybe if I ask nicely, someone will heal it." There was more than a fair share of sarcasm in her voice.

Jocasta chuckled softly. "I like you, Ms. Black. I think we will get along."

"I think we have to if we want to get the hell out of here."

"So we are on the same page, then."

Narcissa nodded. "Have you been here before?"

"No. Nothing looks familiar." Jocasta stood and stretched, her spine popping quietly. "It smells like the sea."

"I thought so, too."

"Then we've left Milan."

"Could we be at the summer home in Capri?" Narcissa questioned.

Jocasta gave her a surprised, if impressed look. "No, I have been there. I would know."

The blonde witch heaved a sigh. "Wonderful. That leaves only about 800 other places by the sea in Italy."

"If we are still in Italy."

Narcissa cringed. She hadn't even considered that. "But why would Gaetano leave after returning for this coup? It makes no sense," she thought out loud.

"No, it doesn't. He is certainly still in Italy, but we do not have to be where he is. If he has enforcers that he trusts he may have handed us off to them."

"I suppose we'll find out."

And they would after a moment of thoughtful silence. The sound of footsteps echoed down the subterranean corridor. Both women tensed visibly and moved back from the bars of the cell, Narcissa scooting on her bum, Jocasta more gracefully on her feet.

It was Renata. Once more, a powerful empathy welled up in Narcissa; this must be hell for Jocasta, betrayed by her daughter. The aforementioned teenager held a bag in her hand. She approached the bars, eyes darting between the two women, and when neither said anything, she placed the bag between the bars and set it on the floor inside the cell.

She had the gall to turn away as if she was going to leave. That was when Jocasta could no longer contain herself.

"I cannot believe you would do this to me. To your father. How could you, Renata?"

The girl whipped around, her chocolate hair swirling in the breeze of the motion. "Uncle Gaetano is right. Father has become complacent. If we don't act now, the Mancinis will wrest Milan from us."

"The Mancinis are our allies. They wouldn't betray us." Jocasta narrowed her eyes and poured some maternal intimidation onto her daughter. "It seems that the betrayal comes from within our own line, doesn't it?"

"You know nothing!" Renata spat, stomping her foot. "You are old and foolish and can't see what is happening right in front of you! While father blindly preaches peace the Mancinis are plotting our downfall!"

"They are doing no such thing. And there is no shame in being a peacemaker, Renata! It takes a greater man to instigate peace than war. Remember that."

"We are instigating nothing. We're only responding to what our supposed allies are plotting."

Narcissa watched the girl closely as she spoke. Never had she been so strongly reminded of Bellatrix. Bellatrix had become a parrot for the Dark Lord almost immediately after she had met him. No word that escaped her lips after that was of her own synthesis. She had always suspected some foul play on Voldemort's part; Bella was the only person, man, woman, or otherwise, that had ever held his attention so strongly, save for Harry Potter himself. In some twisted way, he might have loved her. However, there was also the distinct possibility that Bellatrix had been mentally ill most of her life. Narcissa had the childhood experiences to prove it.

Gaetano was exerting some kind of persuasive force on the girl. And Renata, being young and obviously passionate, bought into it. She sincerely hoped it was nothing like whatever Voldemort had done to her sister. More than that, she hoped that Renata would realize her stupidity; she was young enough to be forgiven.

"And what proof do you have of that?" Jocasta was saying, challenging her daughter's claims.

"Uncle Gaetano has shown me things. Letters. They are going to try to kill us, but we'll be ready for them. Uncle Gaetano only wanted us all to be safe, Mama, I swear," Renata returned vehemently. "He knew Papa could see nothing wrong in Desiderio Mancini. He had to take over! Nobody is going to get hurt, Mama."

That decimated Jocasta's control. Her voice rose to a shout. "Nobody is going to get hurt?! Renata, he SHOT your father! You were right there! People do not shoot their brothers for show or hold their wives hostage if they don't intend for someone to get hurt!" She stalked up to the bars and this time it was Renata who took a step back. Jocasta thrust her arm through the steel bars and pointed at her daughter. "You are young and you think you know how the family works, Renata, but you know _nothing_ and you are only proving it with every moment you listen to your uncle!"

Renata opened her mouth to fire back but Jocasta went on.

"The Mafia was created for brotherhood! It is people like your Uncle who give it a bad reputation! Open your eyes, Renata – your uncle wants the power. That is all he wants. There isn't a single clean motive in him, not for you, for me, for your father, your sister…he shot his own brother without a trace of remorse. How much do you think it would take for him to harm his niece?"

"You're wrong!" Renata screamed.

"Yes, that's why your mother is locked in this cell, clearly," Narcissa couldn't stop herself from saying. She sensed that Jocasta was running out of control; the woman was close to tears. Everything was saying was spot on and Narcissa was glad that at least _this_ particular Scattori had her wits about her.

"You shut up, you English bitch!" Renata said venomously. "The sooner we are rid of you, the better."

"_Dio_ _mio_," Jocasta whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. "I did not raise you like this, Renata."

"Mama, I'm sorry, but I will not stand by while our family is destroyed by the Mancinis. When this is all over you'll thank me." Confident in her delusion, the young witch turned to Narcissa, who eyed her with some of the latent loathing she had always harbored for her irrational sister. Bellatrix seemed back to haunt her in the form of this slender teenaged spitfire.

Renata drew a bundle of paper out of her back pocket. She threw it at the bars; the stack hit with a solid thud and fell in disarray to the floor.

"Enjoy your breakfast," she snarled. Then she turned on her heel and stormed away. Like the paper, Jocasta sank to the floor, her hands over her face. Narcissa went to her without much thought. It was obvious that she was crying. She cradled the deceived woman against her chest and was glad that she was there to do it, for she had always secretly wished someone would comfort _her_ after Bellatrix's fits of insanity.

* * *

Lucius inhaled. The air in Switzerland was quite nice. He had never been and wished he wasn't visiting for the first time under such circumstances. But things needed to be done. And he was usually very good at getting things done.

This plan had come together in his head while he waited for Shacklebolt to get him his auror papers. He could scarcely believe the man had agreed to it; it was a ballsy move and one that most people would have laughed at. Lucius had a strange suspicion that Shacklebolt bore some kind of respect for him – but not the kind that had enabled Lucius to manipulate Ministers past. Those days were gone, anyhow.

He was glad it was raining. It was as if the elements were on his side; it prevented him from having to use a glamour, because he could keep his hood up and his hair and features obscured without anyone thinking it was strange. Everyone around him looked more or less the same.

He looked at the address he had scribbled on a scrap of parchment. This was the building. He ducked in the door, sparing a moment to shake the water from his jacket and put himself in order. He was here to play Lucius Malfoy, accountant and financial advisor, and had to look the part.

The receptionist glanced up at him. Lucius nodded and walked toward her. Thankfully it _was_ a her; he was much more effective if he could flirt his way into things and that wasn't always possible with a man. However, there were some men who would flirt right back. He'd found that out over the years.

Upon closer inspection, the receptionist seemed to be the starchy type. Charm might be a better approach than barely disguised sexuality. He smiled graciously and waited for to complete whatever memo she was typing. She smiled tightly in return and pointed at a small sign on her desk.

She was asking him which language to use. Understandable, since Switzerland used four, three official and one unofficial. Most Swiss people spoke French, German, and Italian, at a minimum, and many spoke English, as well. He indicated English, though he spoke French passably and enough Italian for basic exchanges.

"Welcome," the receptionist stated. "Who are you here to see?"

"Franz Lauten, please. I'm his accountant."

"Do you have an appointment?"

Ah, the inevitable question. Of course he didn't.

"No, but it's really quite important that I see him. I believe I've found something in the books that relates to the recent embezzlement scandal."

"I thought that was resolved?" She glared over her glasses at him. This woman wasn't cracking to his charm in the slightest. Such people did exist, though they were few and far between.

"As did I," he agreed. "This really requires Mr. Lauten's attention. We don't normally do our business in person so I'm certain it says a great deal about how serious I am since I am here."

She pursed her lips at him. Lucius resisted the urge to purse his right back in imitation and moved on to his next strategy. This usually worked.

"I'll just give him a call," he said, digging his phone out of his pocket. Well, it wasn't _his _phone; that had been disconnected, of course, since he was dead. Fortunately he'd had time to transfer his numbers to the new one. He didn't wait for the secretary to respond and hit the speed dial. This never failed; it forced his opponent's hand. No receptionist or secretary wanted to look like a fool for holding back an important client. This woman wasn't born yesterday but even she would probably fold to someone as aggressively confident as Lucius.

She did. The phone rang once before she waved a hand.

"Not necessary. He is on the fifth floor."

"Thank you so very much." He nodded to the receptionist and proceeded toward the elevators. He boarded with a smirk, content that he still had it because he had made it past the secretary without providing any real identifying information and a quick electromagnetic spell had disrupted the security cameras long enough that no record of his entry and ascension existed. The same would have to be done when he left and a minor Confundus charm sent the receptionist's way, just so she would forget his face.

Franz's office was easy to find, as it was the largest one. Yet another woman, this time a secretary, adorned a small alcove just inside the door. However, this one was young and pretty and appeared to have caved to his charm before he made it all the way into the room.

He smiled at her in an entirely different way than he had the other woman. The blonde secretary smiled back so brightly that he was actually amazed at the change it wrought in her face. The men that worked here must be a bunch of ugly buggers. He had just opened his mouth to greet her when Franz poked his head out the door of the office beyond.

"Lucius?"

They had met in person once before, when Franz passed off all the materials for the embezzlement investigation and audit. He didn't trust it to the mail, so neurotic Franz had flown to England and dropped it all off in person.

"Hello, Franz," he nodded, favoring the thin, dark-haired man with a smile.

"What are you doing here?" Franz asked amiably, grinning. "Did we schedule an appointment I forgot about? I thought you couldn't travel for a while?"

"My travel problems have been resolved, fortunately, and I wanted to see how things are going."

"Of course. Come right in." He stood aside, gesturing into the office with a sweep of his hand.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asked, winking at the secretary as he went by.

"No, it's a slow day here." Franz sat down behind his desk and then immediately stood up again. "Would you like anything? Coffee, tea?"

"Some tea, please," Lucius requested. It had been rather cool and raw outside with the rain and he could use the caffeine.

"I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable."

Lucius did just that, taking a plush chair across from the desk. He completed an almost habitual scan of Franz's office; one could tell a lot about a person from the way their personal work space was set up. Franz's was immaculate. He even had a can of compressed air computer duster on the bookcase. If the man wasn't obsessive compulsive, Lucius would eat his gloves.

It was in this sweep of the office that Lucius's eyes lit upon a photograph. He blinked. Then he stood up and walked over to it. There was no mistaking it.

The photograph was a black and white family portrait. Franz was there, holding a little boy that looked to be three or so. A girl of about seven stood between him and a woman, presumably his wife but at the very least the mother of the children. The resemblance was blatant.

The woman was Emma.

Well. That was an interesting twist.

"I see you've found my family," Franz said as he re-entered and shut the door behind him.

"Yes," Lucius remarked. "I may be mistaken, but is that Emma Houghton in the picture?"

"It is. I recommended you to her a while back. Has she taken advantage of your services?"

Lucius was glad he was not yet drinking the tea. He might have choked on it. Emma certainly had taken advantage of his…services.

"She has," he managed. "Though I'm not working for her currently."

Franz nodded. "We have been divorced for about two years now. It was for the best, I think, but I do miss her and the children. She is a hell of a woman, as I'm sure you noticed."

Yes, he'd noticed. He bit the inside of his lip. "I certainly have. I didn't realize you two were involved."

"Were," the other man said, a tad wistfully. "We did not end up happy together."

Lucius was quiet, allowing a moment of rumination to exist between them. Franz knew he himself was divorced, but in the typical way of men, nothing needed to be said. Then Lucius steeled himself. It was time to burst the bubble of pleasantry.

"I think you should send your pretty secretary on an errand, Franz."

* * *

Finley Greene was staring at the letter Draco had sent for the eighth time. A frown was etched on his face. When the young man had left, he'd said his father was recovering. What, then, had happened between his departure and the letter's arrival? He sighed. He had lost his father at a young age, as well, and was always impacted when one of his students suffered a similar fate.

He hadn't yet told the others. They would be upset even though they had never met Draco's father. Everyone except Henric, of course. He had taken the young man aside and given him a stern, but reasonable talking to. Henric just couldn't get past his bias. He had withdrawn from the program and left last night. Finley had given him an excellent recommendation nonetheless; he was a smart man and would do well wherever he chose to transfer to.

Now he had done everything else he needed to do this morning and had nothing left but breaking the news. With a sigh, he rose and moved toward the dining area where most of his students were eating breakfast.

Fortuitously, they were all in there.

"Morning, Professor," Telly said, his voice sleepy. Everyone else was in various states of groggy disarray.

"Good morning," he replied. "I have some news, so get your heads out of your coffee mugs for a minute."

Everyone perked up.

"First of all, Henric has left us. It was his own decision and I would appreciate if no one held it against him. There are very few doctorate-level potions masters so chances are you will see him again."

He got a few scattered nods and one or two glazed blinks of acknowledgement.

"Now, I wish I didn't have to tell you this, but I received a letter from Draco late last night. His father has passed away."

That woke them up.

"But he said that he was all right," Ryan said.

"What happened?" Chelsea asked.

"I don't know. He didn't indicate anything in the letter, just that he will be away for a while."

"We should go see him," Gabriel said, after dropping his spoon back into his cereal bowl.

"Is there a funeral?" Ernesto echoed.

"He didn't say."

"We have to go," Telly said. "No question."

"I agree," David nodded. All of them looked at Greene expectantly.

"Well, I have nothing against it," he shrugged. "He said he was staying at Hogwarts School. The only problem is that the contact I had at Hogwarts died in the war. I'll have to go through the process of contacting the Headmaster and requesting permission, and then getting a portkey from the British Ministry…it could take days."

"No it won't," Chelsea said, standing up. "I think I know how to speed the process. Anyone want to take a walk with me?"

* * *

Gabriel and Ernesto had volunteered and they now flanked her on either side, like bodyguards. She was entertained by it; they evidently felt it was necessary. She had to admit that she felt better with the two of them nearby. A pretty girl could get in a lot of trouble walking by herself in a strange neighborhood, even in broad daylight.

Her bodyguards were speaking in hushed, yet scandalized Spanish. She didn't understand any of it. However, it didn't take a translation spell to guess that they were probably speculating wildly about Draco's father's death. They all wanted to know what happened and in the absence of information the scenarios became more and more dramatic.

The walk was less grotty in daylight. At least it was light; autumn in Philadelphia was proving to be a two-faced affair. It was either dull, cloudy, and cool, or sunny and mild without a cloud in the sky. Today was one of the more beautiful days.

"What are we doing back here?" Ernesto questioned. He had finally realized where they were going. In another block, the painted façade of Finnigan's Wake became visible.

"One of the bartenders here went to school with Draco."

"To Hogwarts?"

"Yes."

Gabriel summed up their surprise. "Shit."

Chelsea smiled at them and raised her hand to pound on the door. It took a few minutes and some persistence on her part, but eventually the door cracked open and a bleary looking man stuck his head out.

"We're closed," he said, sounding exasperated and resigned at the same time.

"I know," Chelsea replied. "I'm looking for someone, one of the bartenders here. He's the nephew of the owner."

"What for?" the man demanded, casting a wary eye at Ernesto and Gabriel. Neither man was particularly beefy or mean-looking, but the fact remained that there was a very pretty girl at the door with two men as an escort. Such things rarely ended well for the cad they were looking for.

"We just need to ask him a question. It's important."

"I can give him a call for you. You three can sit in the bar, meanwhile." The man opened the door and stood aside to let them enter. He still looked faintly suspicious.

Chelsea and her companions took a seat at the bar. It was quite strange, being that the place was completely deserted and pristinely clean – markedly different than the other night. The man went around the bar and picked up a cordless phone.

"Can I have a beer?" Ernesto asked.

Chelsea rolled her eyes and swatted him in the arm.

"As long as you're going to pay for it, you can have whatever you want," the man grumbled as he flipped through a small book, presumably looking for the right phone number.

"Sweet," Ernesto said.

"It's nine-thirty in the morning," Chelsea admonished.

"It's an Irish pub, Chels."

"He doesn't have any money, anyway," Gabriel said, off-hand.

The man put the book down with a thud. "I'm not calling him until you answer a question for me. Seamus hasn't done anything, has he?"

"No," Chelsea assured him. "Really, we just need to talk to him for a few minutes."

"I'll take your word for it. But keep in mind, darling, that I don't take kindly to violence in my bar."

Chelsea opened her mouth to speak, but Ernesto beat her to it. "You think we're here to beat up this Seamus kid cause he dicked Chelsea over? That's rich." He chuckled. "She's practically engaged to some other guy."

"Right," the owner said, frowning slightly. Then he shrugged and dialed the phone. They waited a few seconds. "Oi. Seamus there?" Pause. "Tell him to get his arse out of bed. Someone's at the bar to speak to him." Pause. "Yes, right now. Tell him to put pants on and apparate over."

Chelsea looked up in surprise. The conversation was evidently over, because the owner hung up the phone. A moment later there was a loud pop.

"I'll have you know I was already wearing pants," Seamus said. He stood there in a pair of oversized grey sweatpants and a white cotton tank, arms crossed.

"How did you know we were wizards?" Gabriel asked.

"Wards on the door," the owner said, pointing.

"That's pretty handy."

"Indeed it is," he agreed. He held out his hand. "Garrett Finnigan."

The two men shook his hand, introducing themselves. Chelsea offered her hand, as well, and got a kiss on the knuckles instead of a handshake. Garrett winked at her.

"I didn't think Seamus would be dumb enough to forget about a girl as pretty as you."

"Shove off, Uncle G," Seamus muttered. Garrett chuckled and then made himself scarce.

Chelsea turned herself around in the barstool. "How's it going, Paddy?"

"I'd protest your little pet name, but my real name is so stereotypically Irish that there's no point," Seamus sighed. "I'm great. I worked til four last night. You better be here to tell me I'm your one and only and you want to make millions of Irish babies with me."

"Do it," Ernesto whispered.

Chelsea whacked him on the arm again. "We need you to help us get to Hogwarts."

Of all the things she could have said, that was the least expected.

"What? Why?"

"Draco's father died. We want to go the funeral."

Seamus did a visible double take. "No way! How did I not hear about this?"

"We just heard about it ourselves."

Seamus strode towards them and vaulted over the bar, landing behind it with an ease that suggested he had done it many times before. "Uncle G!"

"What?" Garrett's voice issued from somewhere they couldn't pinpoint.

"Did today's Prophet come yet?"

"Yeah, it's in the office. I didn't read it yet so don't make off with it."

Seamus went to retrieve the paper and was already muttering when he emerged two minutes later. "I can't believe it. This is why his card wasn't working the other night…and why his father didn't pick up the phone." He set the paper on the bar in front of them.

"Murder most black," Gabriel read out loud. Chelsea read faster and as a result she was one step ahead of him.

"Oh my God. His mother murdered his father!" She pressed her hand to her mouth in horror.

"For _money_…" Ernesto whispered.

"That's fucked up," Seamus said. "Even for the Malfoys." He turned to look at the clock on the wall behind them. "So, when do we leave?"

* * *

With some trepidation, Narcissa had reached through the bars to gather the newspaper Renata had thrown. It might give them some clue as to where they were. However, she doubted that Gaetano was that stupid, hence her trepidation.

The paper was in disarray. Narcissa righted it patiently, listening to Jocasta's hiccups. The crying had brought them on. At last she had the stack in the right order. Gritting her teeth, she turned the front page over.

"Oh, Merlin…"

Jocasta looked up. "What is it?"

Narcissa didn't know if she should cry or scream or both. Both won out.

"She wasn't bluffing!" she wailed, tears spilling over her lashes instantly. "She killed him!"

"Who?" Jocasta was at her side, anxiously trying to see the paper.

"Lucius," she moaned. "My husband. Lucius…" She folded in half, her forehead coming to rest on the newsprint. She could hear nothing but the roar of grief in her ears. Lucius was really dead. He was gone. He was dead and he had died thinking that she despised and betrayed him…

And as quickly and acutely as the overwhelming anguish had come, rage replaced it. She would kill Rita Skeeter. She would dismember her. She should have done it in that tiny pantry in Giacomo's house. She had to get out of this fucking cell so she could find that horrid bitch and choke the life out of her. The world already thought she was a criminal, so what difference would it make? If they were going to put her in Azkaban, it might as well be for a real murder…

* * *

Franz had gone very quiet. He stared at Lucius for a long minute, eyes blank. Then he stood up and went to talk to the secretary. Lucius heard him speak in quick French, dismissing the pretty girl on some meaningless errand. Then he returned, closing the door behind him.

"What is it then, Lucius?"

Lucius leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea, the picture of leisure. It was good to let one's adversary squirm for a little while. At last he spoke.

"You're a clever man, Franz."

"Doesn't one have to be, to run a business?" he returned.

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Not necessarily." He took another sip of tea and then set the mug and saucer down. "I took a closer look at your books."

"Did you," the other man said flatly.

"Yes, and I must repeat, you're very clever. You embezzled all that money and then planted the clues that would lead me to your poor underling during the personal audits. And conveniently, he is nowhere to be found, and neither is the money." It was a plot worthy of a Slytherin, but he couldn't say so because Franz was a muggle. "How much did you pay him?"

"Fifty thousand," Franz answered without hesitation.

"Clearly a novice." Lucius smirked. "That leaves you with five hundred fifty thousand Euros, doesn't it? None of which you have to pay tax on. All squared away somewhere, waiting to be subjected to your whim."

Franz opened a drawer and pulled out his checkbook. Lucius appreciated that; the man didn't beat around the bush. "How much do you want, Lucius?"

"I want all of it."

"Mr. Madovic may have been a novice, but I am not, Lucius. You concealed my embezzlement. You are in just as much trouble as me if this gets out."

"I didn't know about it at the time," he shrugged. "I was only doing my job. That's how the law would see it."

Franz glared at him. "What do you need the money for?"

"I find myself in a situation that requires emergency funds."

"And what will you do if I refuse?"

Lucius considered his fingernails. "Well, aside from the rather boring option of ratting you out, I do have some very interesting friends in Milan." They weren't exactly his friends, but Franz didn't need to know that.

"Are you threatening me with the Mafia?"

"Am I?" He affected a false bewilderment.

"To think I believed you were a good man," Franz said coolly.

"There is a certain idiom about glass houses and throwing stones that might apply here," Lucius replied, amused.

"Or maybe a pot and kettle," the other man groused, slumping in his chair.

"I am a good man, Franz. If you give me this money right now, I will return double the amount to you, and then I will quit and never speak to or of you again."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Well, because you have no choice." Lucius smiled pleasantly. "I could just tell you to give me the money and the hell with any incentive for you, but I'm trying to be diplomatic here. I appreciate a good scheme when I see one."

"Run many yourself?"

"Enough."

Franz sighed. "I knew you were a sharp man. I figured if I could fool you, I could fool anyone. I thought I had done it."

Lucius thought back to the time when he'd been going through the audits. His mind had never entirely been on the figures in front of him. There had been too much going on, what with Hermione and the various scandals and murder attempts. He hadn't had the presence of mind to delve deeper and deconstruct motives. When he finally did, he found that he really didn't care. Franz hadn't bankrupted his company. It would recover and no one under his employ would suffer. His investors would perhaps have to put off the purchase of their Bentleys another month, but that was hardly tragic. It was a benevolent theft, if such a thing existed. Franz was very lucky that Lucius was not only a damn good accountant, but also a specialist in moral relativism.

"So do we have an understanding?" Lucius asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," Franz said resignedly. "Let me make a few calls."

As he watched the dark-haired man dial and wait, Lucius felt a profound sense of relief. At last he had a bargaining chip. Five hundred thousand wasn't much, but it was sizable enough to pique Scattori's interest if he didn't have success in simply stealing his wife back. If he had learned anything in his research about the Mafia, it was that the most important things to them were loyalty and money, and as this family obviously had no loyalty…money was his best bet if his other skills failed him. He didn't think that would happen, but it was best to be prepared.

* * *

Draco was sitting next to Hermione in the Great Hall, staring directly into his plate to avoid the whispers and stares that were coming from every direction. Her hand was on his knee, squeezing almost convulsively. It was meant to comfort him but each time she seemed to squeeze a bit harder. He was going to have a hell of a bruise.

He hadn't wanted to come to any meal, and Hermione had let him get away with skipping breakfast and lunch, but she convinced him it was a good idea to make an appearance at dinner. She was right that he couldn't hide in her rooms forever. He had to appear in public. He had to play the grieving son. So far no one had been tactless enough to be rude.

He ate another bite of his stew. Creevey's article was done very well and was a step away from the Prophet's usual incendiary coverage. At least he could be thankful for that. It was just all this social vulnerability that he hated; even though his grief was fake, it was still uncomfortable. Maybe it was _more_ uncomfortable because of that.

A sharp jab of Hermione's nail made him reach under the table to disengage her hand. She looked up at him, bewildered.

"You were bruising me," he whispered.

"Oh," she whispered back. "I'm sorry. I'm so nervous. I don't know why. It's not even my ordeal!"

"It is, in a way."

"I'll kiss your leg better later," she smirked.

"Is this really the most appropriate time to flirt?"

"I'm just trying to take your mind off things."

He nodded. Even though her distractions consisted of giving him a contusion on his leg and ill-timed innuendo, he was incredibly thankful to have her there. If he had to face this alone, he wasn't sure he'd be able to pull it off. And the reality of his life was that he didn't have many friends that would want to support him in a pick-up Quidditch match, let alone something this major.

As if on cue, there was a commotion outside the door.

"Dude! I didn't believe you when you said it was a castle!"

Draco's head snapped up. He must have been hallucinating.

"There's a ghost! A real ghost!"

Nearly Headless Nick's voice could be heard a moment later, "But of course there are ghosts! What sort of place are you from that has no ghosts?" He sounded quite beside himself.

"Oh, there are ghosts, just none in the school I went to."

"What on earth?" That was McGonagall, who abruptly pushed her chair back and stood up.

A moment later, an excited group of people squeezed through the doors to the Great Hall. Draco couldn't believe his eyes. Telly, Ryan, David, Ernesto, Gabriel, Isamu, Chelsea, and Finley Greene himself were all there. There was no Henric in sight, which didn't really surprise him. What did surprise him was the sight of Seamus Finnigan in the lead. Sir Nicholas trailed behind them.

"What is the meaning of this?" Minerva demanded in her usual stern tone.

"Hello, Professor McGonagall," Seamus said sheepishly, grinning.

"That's Headmistress to you, Finnigan," she said. However, she returned the smile. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I'll answer that one," Greene said smoothly, stepping forward. "If we could speak in private for a few moments, Headmistress?"

"Certainly." She cast a look over the enthralled crowd in the Great Hall. "Carry on!" she barked, and everyone jumpily returned to their plates and tried to look like they weren't staring at the newcomers. They might as well have been the newest specimens in Care of Magical Creatures, though. Not that they noticed; they were busy admiring the enchanted ceiling.

Hermione leaned over to Draco. "Are those your classmates?"

He briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Yes they are." Draco sighed. Clearly the compounding of lies was just beginning. But he had to admit, in some small, seldom-used place in his emotional repertoire, that he was very glad they had come.

* * *

It took Narcissa a long, long time to calm down. She hadn't fully believed Skeeter when she told her what she had done. The woman was a liar and in the absence of proof Narcissa couldn't force herself to believe that Lucius was gone. Now she had proof. She wiped another set of tears away with the back of her hand. She had been so sad and then so incredibly angry and then sad again. The period of rage was a black spot in her mind. She couldn't remember what she'd done. It could have been five minutes or five hours. In contrast, the sadness was unbearably slow. She remembered every excruciating moment.

Jocasta was on the other side of the cell examining the newspaper. She seemed very fascinated by the pictures; she examined each one at length. When Narcissa's tears began to abate, she looked up.

"I don't understand," she said softly. "You love this man, yet you agree to marry Giacomo."

Narcissa had no fight left in her. She curled up on her side and murmured, "Just because you aren't married to someone anymore…does that mean you have to stop loving them?"

"I don't know. I have only ever been married to Lorenzo."

"Lucius is…was…my first love and the father of my child," she sniffled. "I'll always love him."

"Then why did you divorce him?"

Narcissa felt her eyes well again. "Because he was a difficult man to love."

Jocasta sighed. "Were you always an easy woman to love?"

"No." She said it out loud for the first time. "No, I wasn't. I was so _angry_ at him after the war…" Jocasta probably didn't know very much about the war, as it had been relatively contained; Narcissa wasn't going to elaborate. "I knew he was trying to do everything he could to make it up to me but nothing was good enough. I just…kept at him." She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the tears. "Everyone hated him and then he had to come home to the same thing from his wife."

The full force of it hit her then. She had been incredibly difficult to love in the years after the war. Lucius had been reduced to almost nothing, in his mind. He had no wand and no status. She still didn't know what had befallen him in Azkaban or the true scope of what he'd seen and experienced in Voldemort's regime. He had been just as traumatized by the war as she had, and he was really the only one paying the consequences. She had come out looking like a saint because of her decision to help Harry Potter. Draco was the bullied child who was forced to take on his father's unsavory practices after Lucius got caught. It was her husband who had been labeled the disgrace.

She had never once considered any of that. She was so caught up in her own anger at what Lucius's stupid decisions had put her and Draco through. That anger was warranted, but Lucius had done the right thing in the end and she didn't think for one moment that he wasn't just as angry at himself. He had surrendered to the fact that he was wrong, that he was inherently flawed somehow. He had rolled over. What she mistook for indifference at the time had really been depression.

No one had done a damn thing for _him_ after the war. Yet he had gone out of his way, wand or no wand, to do things for her and Draco. Draco had been cautiously thankful, if not immediately forgiving. Narcissa had fallen into the trap of thinking '_well, he ought to have been doing these things all along!' _and couldn't spare an ounce of gratitude for something she thought she should have been getting anyhow. It was something she'd been guilty of before and she wasn't proud of it.

"And the worst thing is," she whispered to Jocasta, "he just took it. He tried so hard to please me in the ways he knew. I couldn't see that. I wore him down."

"A man gets tired," the brunette said softly.

"Yes. And then Giacomo came along, and the grass was greener…"

She remembered.

* * *

"_I want a divorce."_

_Lucius looked up from his book, slowly, as if he wasn't sure what he'd really heard. He blinked three times._

"_What?"_

"_You heard me. I want to get divorced."_

"_Narcissa…"_

_She stood there, hands on hips, waiting for whatever tactic he would use to try to talk her out of it. He swallowed and closed his book, carefully placing it on the end table. Then he rose to his feet._

"_I love you. And if…if you don't love me anymore and you want to get a divorce, then…I…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "I want you to be happy."_

_

* * *

  
_

She had taken that as giving up, as a sign that he didn't care for her and wouldn't fight for her. If she had just looked into his eyes that night, she would have seen how it was tearing him apart. And she of all people should have known that Lucius Malfoy placing someone else's happiness above his own was a rare and precious event. It meant more than any fiery argument. But she had already been on her way out the door, unbeknownst to him. The divorce was only a formality at that point. She had decided she didn't love Lucius anymore and wouldn't have listened to any argument he made, anyway. She had set him up to fail.

What a fool she was. What a silly, silly fool. And now she could never tell him how sorry she was or how much she really loved him. Now…she could only avenge him.

* * *

Lucius looked cautiously around Adriatica Alley. The people must have known the Mafia war was back on; it was all but deserted. He cast a disillusionment charm on himself anyway. He would bet that Giacomo's house was being watched, even if he couldn't see anyone there to do the watching. Stealth was never uncalled for in his book.

But he had to admit, as he painstakingly dismantled the wards on one of the hidden back doors, that he was getting a bit old for this kind of crap. Oh well. The door gave at last and he stepped inside, wand raised. What met him was…

Silence. Silence and darkness. He stayed where he was, ears carefully tuned, straining for any indication of a human presence besides his own.

And there it was. A voice. He couldn't make out the words, but whoever it was, they were screaming and pounding on something. He took a deep breath. He wasn't going to get his hopes up that it was Narcissa. It would be too good to be true. And he didn't want her to experience whatever it was that was making this person scream, anyhow.

Lucius suppressed his urge to be reckless. Recklessness had nearly gotten him killed less than forty-eight hours ago. He moved through the house like a wraith, seeking the plaintive voice. It was definitely a woman. As he got closer, he could make out words.

"…can't leave me here! You can't do this to me! You son of a bitch!!!"

He was in the kitchen now. The voice was coming from a door on the left. It wasn't Narcissa's.

He cursed internally. He knew it wouldn't be, but that small part of him had still been stubborn enough to hope. Nevertheless, whoever _was_ in that pantry could be very helpful in advancing his search. He examined the door. It was easy enough to unlock with an Alohomora. Whoever was locked in clearly didn't have a wand. Good. He wouldn't have to worry about hostility.

With one last scan, he crossed the kitchen and aimed his wand.

"Alohomora!"

The lock clicked open. There was no sound behind the door; the person was waiting.

"Step back from the door," he ordered gruffly. He heard a shuffle. Preparing himself, Lucius raised his wand and turned the doorknob with his other hand.

The door swung open. Lucius stepped into the doorway, effectively blocking it. It was a fairly large pantry with a light bulb in the ceiling. Its light revealed a woman crouched in the corner. A woman who was wearing his wife's clothes. Clothes he would recognize anywhere, because it was what his "wife" had been wearing when she attempted to murder him.

The two looked at one another, equally stunned. Then, at the same exact time, they both said,

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!"


End file.
